A Heart of Broken Glass
by FoalyWinsForever
Summary: Much like fissile uranium, people can only take so much before they start spitting some right back. A slightly edited version of an old fic, up for nostalgia's sake and as a monument to my many sins. RebellionFailed!AU. Note the rating.
1. Prologue: Deyna

**Hey there, new (and hopefully old if some of you still have alerts on?) friends! As the summary says, this is the repost of an old story. It switches to the usual first-person present tense after this. I'll put about a billion more disclaimers and content warnings on this later, but for now, all I'll say is please note the rating. **

Deyna watched patiently as President Fife picked up the little sphere of metal, tossing and catching it.

"Ahem," Deyna said gently.

Fife jumped at his voice, synthesized by the gas mask strapped over his red hair. "Ah! Oh. Balthazar. Yes, hello," he said coolly.

"That metal, sir."

Fife tossed and caught it again, trying to look suave, but barely managing to keep control of the thing. "What about it?"

"That's plutonium."

"Is it? Interesting, very interesting."

"Plutonium is radioactive, Mr. President. Perhaps you should go get dosed by the medics?"

Fife's lilac eyes widened. "… Is it?" he said again. He put the sphere down gently and scampered from the cell.

Deyna smiled and picked it up. "Who's a good demon core?" he cooed at the metal, which was indeed radioactive, but not of the variety that would do harm through his gloves. "Is it you? Is it you? Coochie coochie coo."

"Mr. Balthazar?"

"Hmmmm?" Deyna said slowly, spinning the plutonium ball on the table.

"I-Is that, er… is that really the demon core, sir?" the technician stammered, peeking through the bars of the cell from the grimy hallway. The man's uncertain voice did not match the gas mask he wore, identical to Deyna's, designed to be as intimidating as possible.

"Oh, yes. I suppose it's not exactly recognizable on sight, is it?" Deyna mused. "Get some masking tape and label it. Maybe it'll give the District Fives a jump."

The techie blinked, nodded, and darted off.

The Head Gamemaker kept spinning the core idly, watching the hallway through the bars. The technician's footsteps faded out in one direction, Fife's in the other. The wrong way, incidentally. Deyna sighed, gave the plutonium a last fond pat, and set off after the President.

"Sir?" he called.

"Yes?" Fife's voice echoed back from around the corner, a bit more high-pitched than before. Deyna smirked. The place already had such _atmosphere. _It wasn't quite as filthy as he wanted and his favorite tricks weren't installed yet, but this arena had personality. It told a _story. _He was very excited.

Deyna stepped over a dead body. Real and very fresh, for that extra verisimilitude. "This way, sir."

"Which way?" Fife said dolefully. "You're echoing."

"… I'll just come find you, sir," Deyna said, taking a deep breath to fortify his patience. He adjusted his gas mask and set off down the dark corridor, noting that Fife still wasn't wearing one. Hopefully he wouldn't be held responsible for that. Who _could _hold him responsible? Not Fife, certainly.

He rounded a corner to find Fife standing in the middle of one of the tiny lead vaults, his lilac suit streaked with black dust. Fife looked up. "_There _you are."

Deyna nodded. "The exit is back this way, sir."

"Hmm," Fife said. "How close are we to having the arena completed?"

"According to the engineering team… fifty-eight percent," Deyna said, checking his computer. "Most of the infrastructure is done, but there's a lot of wiring and such left. We're right on schedule."

"Cameras?"

"Still working on the mounts and determining the placing for the hidden ones."

Fife nodded. Before Deyna knew what was happening, he was pinned to the wall by his neck, his gas mask torn off.

"M-Mr. President?" he choked out, tugging at Fife's hands instinctively and unsuccessfully.

"All this plutonium, Balthazar. Where'd you get it?"

Deyna gulped. "Er. Well… you know."

"Are you honestly telling me… that you did business with District Thirteen… just to stock your Hunger Games?" Fife snarled in his face.

"Not with the government!" Deyna protested. "A breakaway group."

"_You have access to rogue groups in District Thirteen?"_

"… Er."

"And you thought _I _was stupid."

"In my defense, you did do a remarkably convincing impression of it. Sir."

"Works like a charm, doesn't it?" Fife grumbled.

"It does," Deyna said agreeably, well aware that he had been thoroughly outdone. He'd been so convinced Fife was a nonentity that he'd never noticed the man was nearly twice his size.

"So what's your plan?"

Deyna blinked. "Pardon?"

"Communicating with District Thirteen? Hoarding weapons-grade plutonium? I can promise you your life if you tell me everything. No torture. You have my word."

"I… sir, no, it's not like that. Not at all. I promise you, I am not a traitor."

"Why the contact with Thirteen, then?"

Deyna blinked, wondering if he could be misinterpreting the question. "Because I needed the materials, sir. For the Games."

Fife's eyes narrowed. "You've always loved going behind my back, Balthazar."

Deyna shrugged apologetically, coughing a little when doing so made Fife inadvertently tighten his grip. "I thought you were an idiot. It was fun," he said matter-of-factly. "No need for any of that anymore. I mean… think about it, sir. I believe we've established that you tricked me fair and square. But did I ever try to assassinate you or anything like that while I was under the impression that you were a drooling idiot? I did not. Sir."

"You'll share every bit of information you have about Thirteen, and you'll explain why you didn't do so before." It was a statement, not a question.

"Of course, sir. I can do the latter right now. I didn't tell you because I thought you'd mess it up, and it would be better to save the information to share with the next President."

Fife considered that. "Understandable. You'll also consent to observation, physical and technological."

"Of course, sir. I don't mind at all. Always happy to show my work, mm-hmm," Deyna gritted out, standing on tiptoe to keep his windpipe working. "Certainly."

"You're either being totally genuine or plotting my murder."

Both, as it happened. Deyna was quite serious about having no political aspirations; his concerns began and ended with the Games. But it also happened that he preferred _not _to be choked, and both his trachea and his ego were already bruised.

He looked away. "I just want to do my job, sir."

"And I'm sure you'll do it _brilliantly."_

Deyna risked a toothy smile. "Oh, me too, sir."

xxx

Cleo's cackle rang out across the Gamemakers' office. "Get a load of _this _motherfucker."

Tibbi leaned over her shoulder to read the kid's profile. "Why, what's…? Oh my gracious to Betsy, what a _bastard._"

"But then there's her," Cleo said gleefully. "Oh, man. These two, man. We gotta make 'em fight."

Tibbi's face lit up. "Did you see the girl I found before, too? Maybe the two of them will ally, and, and… ooh, you just _know _the Careers will try and track him down once they figure out what's going on, and… This is gonna be _awesome."_

"Ahem."

They turned to find Deyna behind them, looking grumpier than usual and rubbing his neck.

"Good morning," Tibbi chirped.

"No," he grumbled. "Are you done with the roster yet?"

"Er," Cleo said.

"What's the holdup?"

"Scouting teams, sir. Bit of a mess, but it should all be under control soon."

"Soon," Deyna repeated doubtfully, throwing a glance at the tall man behind him.

"Who is that, by the way, sir?" Cleo asked, staring at the man unabashedly. The man's glasses were too dark to tell whether he was staring back.

Deyna swept past her. "A friend," he said airily.

"That's funny, because he sure looks like one of the President's personal thugs."

"I have friends in high places," Deyna sniffed. "I _am _in high places."

"You sure you're not just high?"

He considered it. "No. Just get me that damn roster, would you?"

"Doing our best, sir."

"Somehow that doesn't fill me with confidence."

Cleo made a face at his back.

xxx

Hundreds of miles away, an Avox woman died. She was the ninth that day.

An engineer in a gas mask turned up the portable fluorescent floodlight by the door. The stark glare splashed across fiberglass body bags piled on the concrete floor, the first few lined up neatly, later ones haphazardly slung down when it became apparent that the death rate would be immense. A Geiger counter clicked gently in the corner, the reading slightly higher since the dying woman had been brought in.

He punched a needle into the woman's arm, drew blood into a tiny vial, and plugged the vial into a device on his belt. "Damn," he said.

"How much?"

"Twelve grays."

The second man whistled, his mask rendering the sound as a soft shriek. "Where was she?"

"Let me check." The first engineer scanned the tracker in the woman's arm, pulling up her assignment history. "Looks like the workshop room, mostly. Yeah, we'll have to bring that down; anyone who spends a lot of time in there will be someone the Gamemakers want to stay alive for a while. What's in there?"

"Some cesium-137, I think. Might've been polonium, too. All in capsules, though; shouldn't be more than a millisievert an hour. Just to give 'em a jump if they get a counter working."

"Some of the capsules must be leaking." The engineer glanced around the the room, a vault they'd been forced to set aside for Avox corpses. "Hey, Avox, c'mere."

A teenage girl with a torn paper surgical mask tensed in the corner, crouching over the body of an older boy.

"Yes, you. Leave him alone a minute; I promise he won't run off on you."

The girl stood up and crept over warily. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair limp and full of gray dust. Her posture conveyed the exhaustion of someone who'd been so scared for so long that she'd lost the ability to do anything but what she was told.

"Pick up a Geiger counter and go to the workshop. That's section 3A, second level. There are cabinets in the back of the room with little gray balls loose in them, like marbles. Hold them up to the counter. If the light turns red, bring the ball to Contamination."

The girl's eyes went dead.

"Quickly, please," the engineer reprimanded.

She tilted her head, giving him a questioning look.

"What?"

She drew her finger across her throat and gave him the look again.

"Will it kill you, you mean?"

She nodded.

He considered it. "I doubt it. Hold it far away from your body and walk fast. Can't hurt to use tongs if you can find them. Don't eat it and don't skip any mammograms for the rest of your life, sweetie."

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then swallowed hard, nodded, and trudged off, staring at the ground.

The engineer heaved an impatient sigh. "I wish they wouldn't _look _at me like that."

"Makes you feel like a monster," his colleague agreed.


	2. Reapings: Luka

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

It's like getting up for water in the middle of the night. You can't be scared if you just don't _think _about it. There are no monsters under the bed until I start to wonder. The Hunger Games are nothing to worry about as long as I keep staring at the asphalt and playing with the zipper of my jacker and concentrating on Dad's hand on my shoulder.

He does this every year. Fights his way to the edge of the roped-off sections, sometimes literally. I've seen him pick people up off the ground and put them down somewhere else just so he can stand next to me. It's not that he's a violent guy, really; he's just six foot four and built like a bar fight waiting to happen and maybe just the tiniest little bit overprotective of me. I don't mind. He cares. I'm lucky.

Now, if only I could inherit his height and build, and not just the rose-red hair. His arm is as big around as my thigh, and I have to stretch my neck and think positive thoughts to hit five foot four.

Well, at least it's a nice day, I muse. One of the nice things about living in northern District Three. You could easily freeze to death in the winter, of course, but in early summer it's just lovely. Except the whole Hunger Games thing. That's bad.

But there are so many people, and Dad would never let me take out tesserae even though we sort of need them, so—Wait. No. I'm thinking about it. I'm not gonna think about it.

"Did you feed Chekhov?" Dad says, probably just to break the tense silence between us.

"Yeah. He'd let me know if I didn't."

There's still a hole in the wall from where we busted through it to pull the complaining cat out a few years back. No clue how he got there or where he came from, but he's ours now. He talks a lot.

The massive screen at the front of City Seventeen's square flashes on. A few people cheer, probably just happy to get it over with, but there's an angry muttering and the cheers go silent.

Suddenly the whole crowd starts clapping. I can't see what's going on over the shoulders of the boys in front of me no matter how much I crane my neck. It's a little claustrophobic, down here at the bottom of a well of heads and shoulders.

"Peacekeeper onstage," Dad says in my ear. "Held up a sign saying 'applause.'"

Oh. That makes sense, I guess. The stage is there for in case someone from here is Reaped, decked out with a podium and banners so they'll have something to film.

The Mayor appears on the huge screen, big and high enough that even I can see it. He reads the Treaty of Treason in a rapid-fire monotone and hands the microphone to the escort before practically teleporting offstage. _I feel you, buddy, _I want to say. _I wouldn't wanna be near her either._

Our escort is more or less naked. I would be okay with that, even though she's not the youngest, fittest person in the world. Inner beauty and expressing yourself and so on. No problem. The issue is the crazy glowing purple demon eyes. I'm pretty open-minded, I guess, but I draw the line at demonic possession.

Her voice is wet. She's miles away, but I can practically feel her spitting all over the crowd. I want to take a shower. Everyone sort of flinches and hunkers down and waits it out until she gets to the part we give a fuck about.

"Ladies first, of _course," _she declares, snapping her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Oh, let me just… this one? Hmm, no, I don't care for the way it's folded. This…? Ugh, no, it's so… so… I don't like it. Ah, now _this _one!"

There's a collective cringe from the girls' side of the square. I think of everyone over there I care about. Too many. Usually it's a good thing, but not today.

"I like this one," she explains. "Look at this delicate fold. I just _know _this tribute will be equally delicate and beautiful. I bet we'll all fall in love!"

I can practically hear the crickets chirping, both here in City Seventeen and onscreen in City One.

"The lucky lady is…"

Pause. Pause pause pause. Of course. I'm getting angry at her, and I don't _get _angry.

"… From City Eleven…"

Everyone holding their breath lets it go. The screen splits, half of it staying in City One, the other half going to Eleven. They've tried to tidy up. They haven't succeeded. I think there's blood on the backdrop, and the stage is deserted.

Our escort blinks. "Ahem. Anyone home?"

"Coming! Yes. Here." A disheveled woman sprints into the frame, adjusting the microphone on her podium. It sparks a bit. She doesn't blink. Possibly because she's got a black eye. "Ready when you are."

For a moment I hear a scream and a series of gunshots before whoever's editing the sound from Eleven manages to filter them out. The woman's expression doesn't change from its frozen smile.

"Yes, okay," the escort says testily. Well, maybe she shouldn't have picked someone from Eleven, then. I'm from the bad part of City Seventeen, I guess, but City Eleven is hell. You get mugged on my street. You get kidnapped and sold off for spare parts over there.

The smiling woman is replaced by a crowd shot. They're struggling to find people who aren't glaring or bloody, but it's impossible. It pans over the twelve-year-old girls hopefully, then cuts away when it finds one of them tossing up a middle finger and two more feeling each other up in the corner of the pen.

Our escort takes a let's-just-get-this-over-with-dammit breath. "Viss Bardier!" she calls.

It takes the camera a second to find the girl and I almost laugh when it does. There's no fear or even sadness in her expression. Just flat disgust and a bit of contempt, like the Capitol has dared to ruin her plans for the day and has no idea who it's messing with. The set of her jaw and the way she cracks her neck when she steps forward strikes me as dangerous. No reaction shot from her family and friends; she must be Work Group. She's dark-haired, tan-skinned, on the short side, but muscular. Her T-shirt might have been white once.

She takes the stage with a bit of a swagger, staring at Smiling Lady. "Now what?"

Smiling Lady blinks. "I don't know," she says through her insane grin. "Say something nice."

Viss looks right into the camera and gives it the most utterly humorless smile I've seen in my life. It's not just the absence of happiness. It's _rage. _More than she could've mustered in the last minute or so. I think she's one of those slow-burning people, all rock and metal on the outside, with a white-hot core.

"Well, hey. I'm Viss," she says flatly to all of Panem. The smile takes on the hint of a tight, but oddly weary smirk. "Guess you're gonna fall in love with my delicate beauty any second."

I feel bad for even thinking it right now, but she's not bad-looking. A little less fragile, skinny limbs or nice clothes or delicate anything, a little more wild curly hair, bruises on her forearms, thighs she could murder with, and that stony look in her eye that says she'd kill without blinking.

I blink as I realize I have a crush on her already. Dammit. That's… not good. For a few reasons. Why do I always chase the girls who might strangle me and leave me in an alley?

"Lovely to meet you, dear," the escort cuts in.

Viss gives her that same I-don't-have-the-energy-for-this-level-of-bullshit look. "Okay."

And she's gone. No more split screen. I want her to be okay, but I'm not sure what 'okay' would _be _for her.

"Time for the boys. From City Seventeen!"

The whole square jumps. We wait for the dramatic pause thing, but I think she's learned her lesson; she scoops up a piece and sticks with it. Dad's hands tighten on my shoulders. My stomach squirms. It's okay. Don't think. I have no control over the situation anyway; I can just close my eyes and relax and it'll all be over and it'll be okay–

"Luka Skade!"

Oh.

Ohhh. _That's _the flaw in my strategy of not thinking about it. I'm zero percent prepared for this.

I can do the tough-guy thing when I need to. District Three does that to you. If I could only keep my shit together, I'd come off as the scrappy little peacock-haired punk kid, just like everyone else. Flash a switchblade and wink at people and show teeth and do the whole routine.

I _could _do that, if I were ready for it. But I'm not. So what I actually do is stand there in shock, tears in my eyes, as the taller boys around me back away and Dad's arms wrap around me protectively.

Uh-oh.

For a second I forget how much trouble I'm in, because I know him well enough to guess he's about to get himself in some more immediate trouble of his own.

"Let go," I whisper.

He tightens his grip around my chest. Not a bat's chance in hell I can get him off me before the Peacekeepers reach us.

"Dad, it's fine, just…" It's not convincing. Less so because my voice is cracking and it's all I can do not to burst into tears.

"No," he says in disbelief. "They can't… You…"

I see white helmets and reflective visors cutting through the crowd. If they try to forcibly separate us, Dad is gonna start hitting them, and they're gonna shoot him, and… I know I won't literally die, but I'll die.

"Dad. Please. You'll see me in a minute, just _please _don't get shot."

"No. No, no, no, no, no…"

The Peacekeepers are surrounding us now. We get a grace period, I guess, before they start prying us apart with rifles.

I can't wrap my brain around the fact that Dad can't save me. People respect him, and not just because he's huge. No one's really well-off here, but I've always had an apartment to sleep in and the comfort that I won't wake up with my throat slashed. He got me antibiotics when I got sick. I still don't know how. I've almost never been hungry. I don't remember it, but people tell me he used to drink a _lot _but stopped when I was born. He's so happy when I get good grades, and I think he's convinced himself A's will somehow get me out of here. I can _feel _how much he cares about me and wants me to be safe and happy and all that, how much time and effort he's poured into my wellbeing, how proud he is of me.

And now I'm about to be literally torn from his arms, and it seems egotistical, but I don't know what he'll do without me. He doesn't care about anything else. I think I was his last hope.

Plus, of course, I'm terrified for my own sake. I'm not a killer. I don't want to die. I don't want to be scared for days and days, unable to trust anyone or anything. I _can't. _And I wanted to graduate, I wanted to talk to the green-haired girl down the hall, I wanted to finish the book I was reading. How can they do this?

The Peacekeepers are on me now. I want to make eye contact with the one right in front of me, but I only see my own pale, pointy face staring back at me in a panic. Even though I just told Dad to let me go, I shrink back toward him, closing my eyes and hiding my face against my shoulder and falling back on five-year-old logic. I'll just hide and let him handle it and it'll be okay.

"Mr. Skade," the nearest Peacekeeper chides. "You should be honored."

I gulp, willing Dad to stay calm with everything I have. Somehow he does. Then the Peacekeeper puts a hand on me.

_Crack._

For a moment, I just stare in disbelief. He actually cracked the man's helmet.

The Peacekeepers pounce on the opportunity, grabbing Dad's arm before he can wrap it around me again. They drag me out from the other one. I'm too shell-shocked to fight them myself, but when a Peacekeeper goes flying over my head I know Dad doesn't have the same problem.

I twist around to catch his eye. "_Stop," _I hiss. He won't hear me over the noise, but he'll get the point.

"What else can they do?" he snarls, smacking a rifle away from his chest and knocking the Peacekeeper to the ground after it. He pulls his foot back like he's about to deliver a hit even Capitol medicine might not be able to fix. Thirty fingers tense on thirty triggers.

"You think I can take you dying right now?" I yell at him.

Now I'm freaking out for real. That gets his attention. He stops fighting and immediately there are ten Peacekeepers on him.

"Don't hurt him," I plead with one of the ones holding me, of which there are four. Why? They're all twice my size and I haven't even tried to fight them. "C'mon, you know he didn't mean it, he just–"

The man gives me a sharp shake, like he's either warning me to shut up or just doesn't feel like listening. They hustle me up onto the little stage thing. That, I'm _definitely _not ready for. The crazy thought crosses my mind that Viss is almost certainly watching and I doubt she's impressed with the trembling, wide-eyed heap of skinny ginger that is me at the moment.

The crowd stares up at me. They're on my side and I know it, but I'm still overwhelmed by so many pairs of eyes on me at once. All of Panem is watching me, and it's the weirdest feeling. I'm not _important. _I'm just not. Hell, sometimes I'm not sure I'm even a real person. Suddenly I'm a celebrity in the worst way possible and it has to be some kind of awful joke.

And I can't find Dad in the crowd. I'm not even nauseous anymore, it's just a dull, heavy ache in my stomach. At least I'll know before I go. Either he'll show up at the Unity Building—City Seventeen's local subsidiary to the Justice Building in City One—or he won't. And then I'll know. And then either they'll have to pry us apart again, or I guess I'll sit there and cry, and then…

A smiling woman pops up next to me, holding out a microphone. She's identical to the one in City Eleven, or maybe not. I'm not thinking straight.

"You two twins?" I ask stupidly. My voice echoes across the square. I think my knees are about to give out.

The woman blinks. "Just say something," she hisses, shoving the microphone into my hands.

I gulp and turn to face the crowd again. All I need is something to say that isn't beyond idiotic, and for my voice to not crack while I say it. While the universe is granting total fucking miracles, I'd like a pony and a batch of snickerdoodles.

"Hey," I say.

So far, so good. My desperate search of the crowd pays off when I find a girl from my math class. We're casual acquaintances at best, but one time she smiled and said thank you when I picked up the pencil she dropped, and that's good enough for me. She gives me a weaker version of the same smile when she catches my eye, like she realizes she's my weird lifeline and wants to help as much as she can.

"So… I-I'm Luka," I soldier on. The girl next to her gives me a thumbs-up, and I smile a little even though I'm sick and terrified. "Dunno how much I'm s'posed to talk, but, uh, I know some of you, and I wanna see you again, so… wish me luck, yeah?"

I glance at Smiling Woman Number Two. She nods and holds out a hand for the microphone, gesturing me off the stage in the direction of the same Peacekeepers who had me before. For a second I balk, but what choice do I have? I walk right back over to them. One puts a light hand on my shoulder and guides me through a curtain behind the stage.

Now we're in a little fabric-surrounded tent thing full of behind-the-scenes stuff like cameras and makeup tables. The second the cloth swooshes shut behind me, I'm grabbed by both elbows and frisked. My knife clatters into a plastic bin.

"Hey, c'mon!" I protest. "Look, I'm not gonna do anything, but that's–"

"You can't take it in the arena," Smiling Woman Number Two snaps as she shoves through the curtain after me. She's not smiling anymore. "No weapons as tokens."

"But–"

"I'll take care of it. I will personally return it to you if you come back. Okay?"

It could be nice of her, except the way she says it is nasty, like she's mocking me for even entertaining the notion that I'm coming back alive. She's got a point. I might as well start getting used to the mental image of Dad opening a coffin with my body in it. And that's assuming _he's _still alive.

I don't want to break down in front of these people any more than I already have, but it's a close fight to keep something like composure. I wish I were tough. Really, truly tough to the core, not just the knife-twirling, peacocking punk bullshit I go along with because it's tough to find clothes that _don't _look like I'm about to start a street fight and goddammit maybe I like my hair blue sometimes. But that doesn't mean I can kill, or handle Dad dying. The thought of being in the arena all alone makes my guts feel like cold mud. I can't remember the last time I've been alone for more than five minutes at a time.

This is gonna _suck._

**They're not all this long.**


	3. Reapings: Amaris

**Amaris da Costa, District Four, 17**

I love lifting. I'm good at it. I can barely make it through a set without stopping to admire all the weight on the barbell and thinking about how amazing I am.

I set the bar on the pins and sit up just in time to see Lowen try to clean a stupidly heavy bar, fail, stumble backwards, and almost drop it on herself.

"Wow," I comment. "Careful there."

"Shut up."

"And you're supposed to be volunteering today? That's stupid. I could kill you with my eyes closed."

Usually I'm not _quite _so openly aggressive, but here in the "specialty gym", with Lowen, I've got nothing to hide.

She rolls her eyes. "Try it."

"You're not worth prison."

"You mean you don't want to die," she snaps back.

I consider that. "You know? I don't like you."

"Good."

"I wasn't finished."

"I don't care."

"I'm volunteering."

She freezes. "What?"

"I. Am. Volunteering."

"You _better _not."

"And I'm closer to the stage," I say cheerfully. "So guess who's gonna get there first? Me. Tough luck. Shouldn't have been a bitch."

"Amaris," she says in disbelief. "I've been training since I was twelve."

"Me too."

"Volunteer next year!"

"Mmm… no."

"Amaris," she pleads. It's fake. She knows the best-case scenario of fighting me is injuries bad enough to take her out of the Games anyway, so she'll sacrifice her pride before turning to violence.

"Still no."

Lowen's face snaps back to its usual glare. She's so _ugly. _"Last chance," she hisses.

"Nope, sorry."

"Fine."

And just like that, we're fighting. She dives for me. I jump backwards onto the bench and shoot a kick at her solar plexus, sending her stumbling backwards into the dumbbell rack. She grabs one and swings at my head with it. I feel the breeze as it misses my forehead by an inch, noting that she just tried to kill me. Rude.

She tries to take me by surprise with a backhand, but I'm smarter; I catch her arm and twist it, dragging her off-balance and forcing her to let go of the weight so it doesn't break her wrist. It shatters the mirror. I crouch and twist her arm more, lifting her clear off the ground and flipping her over my shoulder. She lands on her side, and I've still got her arm; I follow her to the ground and put her in an arm bar. She taps out reflexively. Ha. I break her arm anyway.

To her credit, Lowen doesn't react aside from a sharp intake of breath. She closes her eyes for a second, then opens them to glare at me. "You _bitch," _she snarls. "What the fuck did you-?"

I twist her arm to the side, shattering her elbow beyond repair. Looks like she'll have to get a desk job. What a shame. Except, oops, that was her right arm, so she'll have to learn to live as a leftie too.

I can see it in her eyes as she gives up completely. It makes sense; I just destroyed all her hopes and dreams. Well, that's what you get.

"I hope you die," she says, her voice more a sigh than a snarl.

"Shut up or you _will _die."

"Fuck you. I don't care."

I consider my options. This whole complex is reserved for Careers and their trainers, sprawling along the clifftops overlooking the ocean. Lots of windows. The view is beautiful as I shatter her arm just a bit more, because I can.

I could kill her. But I might strain my back hiding her body; she's got to be pushing two hundred pounds. And where would I hide her? There are all sorts of weird nooks and crannies around here, but every twelve-year-old newbie has nothing better to do than explore them, convincing themselves they're the first one to ever have the brilliant idea of, say, opening a door. And _everyone's _here today. It's a miracle we're alone in the weight room.

I stand up with a grumpy sigh, stomping on Lowen's ribs for good measure. "Too much work," I decide. "Come up with a story. Maybe you fell down the stairs?"

"Maybe a crazy bitch picked a fight with me when I was tired from lifting."

"Oh, uh-uh. No slander. You'll regret it."

"What're you gonna do, break more bones?" she grits out, dragging herself to her feet. "You think I haven't lost track of the bones I've broken by now?"

"No. But if you do anything to piss me off, then when I come back–"

"You're not coming back," she cuts me off.

"_When I come back, _I'll ruin the lives of everyone you care about. You know I can. I'll be a Victor. You're nothing."

Her eyes narrow at the accusation, because she knows it's true. She didn't even go to normal school. All she's good for is fighting. Too bad she's not even good enough at that. "I don't care about anyone enough to lie about this," she says.

"Aw, c'mon, Lo-lo," I tease. "You've got a family. Don't be a brat."

There's no fire in the look she gives me. Suddenly she seems so much _older _than me, and I don't know why, and it pisses me off.

"So do you want a fucking war or not?" I hiss in her face. "If you tell anyone what happened to you, I _promise _you'll regret it."

She gives me that same calm look. "I'll think about it. Shouldn't you go get dolled up for your big moment?"

I gasp. "You're right! Thanks for reminding me! And remember, keep your mouth shut or I'll murder your little sister!" I yell over my shoulder. I might just do it anyway. Little sisters are the worst people in the world.

The run home is an interesting one. I have to keep adjusting my face from Extremely Aggressive Ragebeast Mode to Sweet Nice Girl. I've got appearances to keep up. Maybe a lost cause, since I'll be killing people in a week, but it's a habit. I'm fucking _charming._

My bedroom door is closed when I get home, but Amani is in there. I can feel it in the floorboards, feel her body heat through the door, hear her breathing… I'm not sure exactly how I know, but I know.

I throw the door open. She sits bolt upright in my desk chair, my jewelry box in her lap.

My bracelets. _She touched my bracelets._

"You little bitch," I hiss.

"No, Amaris, I was just–"

I cross the room in three strides and tear the box from her hands. "You are _so _lucky I don't–"

"I wasn't taking your things! I just lost my earrings and I thought maybe–"

"Don't interrupt!" I yell at her. "It's rude!"

"… Sorry," she squeaks.

Ugh. Whatever. Anyway, as much as I hate her, I could use an audience right now. "Guess what?"

"What?" she said cautiously, backing toward the door.

"I'm volunteering."

"I… yeah, I know."

"Today."

She blinks. "Really?"

"Really really!" I say brightly. "Excited?"

"Yeah."

My cheerful expression snaps to a scowl. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What? Nothing. I'm excited for you," she says with the least convincing endearing face I've seen in my life.

Ugh. _Ugh. _Can't I dial up the universe and see if I can murder Amani and get Mom back? Because that was _not _a fair trade the first time around. Amani is pathetic. She's worthless. At least if someone ever dies for me, they'll be dying for someone smart and strong and beautiful. Mom would be _proud _of me. I bet she'd have stopped the pregnancy if she knew how Amani was going to turn out.

Needless to say, I inform Amani of this regularly. The one thing I can't have is her daring to think she was worth it. Hell, maybe she'll get the point eventually and work on not being worthless. Try to be awesome like me. But I doubt it.

"Why aren't you leaving?" I snap.

Amani dithers around near my door. "So… you're sure?"

"Yep." I mean it.

She nods. "Okay."

"Out."

She leaves. Finally.

Now to important things: my dress, shoes, and jewelry. Red dress. Short. Tight. Black heels, because no one should be looking at my feet when they could be looking at the rest of me. A necklace. Bracelets. I _love _bracelets. And oh, look, there are Amani's favorite earrings, right at the bottom of my jewelry box. I honestly don't know how they got there—Dad must've found them and assumed they were mine—but I shrug and put them on. If I _do _die in the Arena, I'll have the small comfort that Amani will never see them again.

And off to the Reapings I go.

It's a glamorous affair. We're spread out over miles and miles of coastline. People have to travel from the farthest reaches of District Four. Good thing being a Career gets me and my family a house within walking distance of the stage. The crowd is thickest here, where you can actually see what's going on without having to watch the viewscreens stretching off down the shoreline, but people get out of my way.

Well, most of them. Some of them, the ones I've been nice to, smile and wave but stay in my way. But, to my eternal delight, I don't have to be nice anymore, so I can send them scattering, leaving a trail of bruises and hurt feelings in my wake. No one fights back, so I don't care. Want me to stop? Then _stop me. _Can't? Tough.

I plant myself smack in front of the stage in the Seventeens row, shoulder to shoulder with every other girl my age in the District. The boys are behind us, and the Eighteens behind them, thousands and thousands of each lined up in a single row.

No sign of Lowen. There fucking _better _not be.

But oh, wait, speak of the devil. There she is. Arm in a sling. Chopped-off hair still dirty. Slinking into the Eighteens line. There's a collective alarmed rustle at the sight of her so beaten up, because oh my gracious goodness heavens, if Lowen isn't volunteering, who's to save the dear sweet innocent children?

Everyone arrives at the same conclusion at once and starts sneaking glances at my "friend" Jaida as the other eighteen-year-old trained female. Jaida laughs and shakes her head to tell them tough luck, sorry, no. She trains for fun. No intention of saving anyone.

A few glance at me. I keep my face neutral. Nervous, even. Let them wonder.

But then I notice something _terrible._

It's Lowen's little sister. And her parents. Shoving through the crowd to get to her. They probably haven't seen her in years; I'm pretty sure she sleeps at the Training Center. They're hugging her, touching her hurt arm gently. I can't hear what they're saying, but I can imagine. _We're so happy you're not volunteering. Forget it. Come home._

Lowen hesitates, then wraps her good arm around her sister. I think she's crying.

Ugh. I might throw up. I am _definitely _making things unpleasant for the lot of them when I come back, and Lowen better know it.

At last Eliseo Hazen takes the stage. I barely have the self-control not to run up there right now, but I hold back, letting the tension build as he pulls a slip.

"Glashe Stranner!"

The cameras find her in seconds, giant screens zooming in on her. Average-looking fourteen-year-old. Oh look, she's crying too.

I clench my fists theatrically. Determined face. Dammit, I'm a _martyr._

"I volunteer!" I yell.

Eliseo jumps around in a flurry of turquoise and green. "Ooooh, District Four never disappoints! Come up here! Come on up!"

I do, nodding gravely. Warrior face. Brave and strong. Fuck yeah.

I wait to be handed the microphone. This is my moment. But he just returns to the Reaping Ball, leaving me standing there with my arm half-extended.

Well. Fine. Okay. Apparently they changed the rules. Well, there's still the interviews for Panem to learn that I'm not only brave and beautiful, but also brilliant.

"And the boys… Cor–"

"I volunteer!" Riley says, almost offhandedly, ambling toward the stage.

Eliseo smiles and nods. Then he stops smiling and holds a hand to his ear.

Riley makes it to the stage and frowns. He's at least two feet taller than Eliseo. "Something wrong?" he growls.

"Er," Eliseo says nervously. "You, er… you weren't the first volunteer."

The crowd gasps. So do I. This _is _interesting.

"Sorry," Eliseo squeaks.

Riley stares at him in disbelief. For a moment I think he's going to pick the escort out and toss him into the crowd. To my immense disappointment, he just takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, nods, and leaves the stage. But I know someone will pay the price for this, probably his girlfriend.

Eliseo breathes a sigh of relief. "Now, if we could see…?"

I can't help twisting around to the screens to see who my darkhorse partner will be.

Ooh.

I can work with this.

He's tall. A little too skinny, but with messy dark hair, dark eyes… even I'm impressed with his eyebrow game, and needless to say, my eyebrows are perfect. The black eye and streaks of blood on his clothes mar it slightly, but whatever. The look on his face says he's doing this to spite someone. Maybe everyone. Well, I'll find out.

We are going to be _glamorous._

**So uh just curious, is anyone actually reading this?**


	4. Reapings: Ariel

**And here's where things start getting weird. Not to spoil anything but District Five is like 90% responsible for the M rating. There's nothing very dark in this chapter, things just get, uh, a lil saucy. If you were here the first time around, enjoy the dramatic irony.**

**Also, because it's not clear for a while, this is a dude.**

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

I love plutonium cores because they're perfectly safe right up until you fuck up, and then nothing can save you. A misplaced reflector. A faded label. _Bang. Flash. _So much for your intestinal lining.

And you don't have to mess up that badly. You might not even know. The alpha particles can't get through your skin, so you're totally fine unless you accidentally inhale or ingest some of the material. If you do, it soaks into your bones and irradiates your guts for the rest of your life and beyond.

Take polonium, for example. If you dosed a hundred people with one microgram each, fifty of them would die of it. But it looks so _innocent, _just a dullish, purple-tinged metal. Like you could make a drink coaster out of it. And it goes airborne easily.

I like that about radioactivity. It teaches you respect.

I push off against the wall, sending my rolly chair careening across the control room. Technically I'm not supposed to be alone in here, given that I'm not officially licensed. Technically I'm not supposed to be in here at all, given that I'm not eighteen until the winter. But this is academia; nobody cares about regulations. We care very much about not getting killed horribly, of course, but following every last letter of the law? No. We do what we want.

My shift doesn't end for an hour. I'm bored. I finished my homework within twenty minutes of getting in here, which was three hours ago. I'm not allowed to listen to music or take a nap.

Well, at least I've got my favorite source of entertainment: me.

I pull out my phone and make all sorts of faces at myself in the camera, playing with the lighting and very much enjoying the sight of my own face. Rich green eyes. Brown hair. Perfect lips. Cheekbones like a goddamned angel. How should I do my hair for the Reaping? Sleek and smart? Messy-sexy? Under-the-radar well-behaved?

Ha. No. Never.

I don't usually care _quite_ so much, but today is a big day. I'm getting Reaped. I could be wrong, but I doubt it.

I have this theory that the Reapings aren't random. Even outside the Career Districts, the tributes are always suspiciously strong and smart and attractive. They have weird pasts. They're _interesting. _They make good entertainment.

And I happen to be the single most interesting thing in District Five. And by "most interesting" I mean "hottest". Reactors included.

Speaking of which…

I glance at the readouts. Twelve hundred degrees Celsius, nice and toasty.

As always, I'm fascinated by how easily it could all go straight to hell. There's a word for it, I think. _L'appel du vide, _or something like that. The call of the void. Like standing in a high place and having the crazy urge to jump. With a few buttons and codes, I could yank out the control rods, and I and many others would be so, so very dead.

Nothing's computerized. Can't have hackers from the outlying Districts getting in and doing exactly what I'm contemplating doing anyway. And no way did the Capitol devote the money to actually making the containment dome thick enough to hold together in the face of a full meltdown. So there's nothing to stop me. As long as I'm alone in this room, I'm the motherfucking _deity _of this building.

And I'm dying anyway, probably. The Games and all. So…

But no, that's no fun. And then I'd go down in history, for the few weeks it would take to forget my name, as the idiot who couldn't even run a reactor right. That won't do.

I walk away from the console to remove the temptation, but now I'm bored again. I've never had the attention span for reading more than I have to. I don't see the point of drawing because I'm the only work of art I need, damn it. I spend a few minutes dancing around for the cameras—not exactly stripper-dancing, but not exactly _not_ stripper-dancing, either; I'm sure the guys in security will get a kick out of it—but even that can only amuse me for so long.

I flop back into the rolly chair and spin around idly. _Could _I be wrong about getting Reaped? Or maybe it'll be next year, when I'm legal. But then _I'll _look creepy, and I think they'll want to be able to root for me. It'll be fun to see how far I can push that. How awful can I be and still be sponsored by people who want to screw me?

Pretty far, if my life so far is any indication. I talk back to every authority figure I meet just to see how much they'll take. I break rules until the Peacekeepers have to do something about it. And then I find out exactly how much, say, waiving a crime worth weeks in prison or ignoring a risky move at the reactor is worth. The price of all sorts of infractions is often remarkably similar.

At long, _long _last my shift is over and the next guy comes in. It's Winston, a friend of my mentor. He looks serious.

"Something wrong?" I ask.

Winston throws me off my game. There are people who want me, and people who hate me because I'm beautiful, and people who hate me because I'm awful, and people who are some combination of those. Then there's Winston. He's never shown the barest inkling of noticing that I'm attractive, _or _that I'm a terrible person who's also a total hussie.

Let it never be said that I'm not self-aware.

"Well, the Reaping," he says in a voice like I'm stupid for not knowing but he can't say that out loud because he has to be nice to me today. He cares, I think, which is weird, but he doesn't know how to be anything other than stern. He's just that kind of nerd. I like him, even though talking to him is the most awkward experience I have on a regular basis, and that's saying a lot for someone who's seen the Mayor naked.

"Oh. Right," I say.

"Good luck."

"I… thanks, Winston."

He frowns. "Fix your hair; you look like you just got out of bed."

I resist the urge to tell him that's the point. "I will. Thanks."

Winston nods. I duck out before he can tell me to straighten up some other aspect of my appearance, although I really don't look that messy aside from my hair. I'm a dress-shirt-and-dark-jeans kind of guy. Just innocent enough at a glance to keep people guessing.

I have neither the time nor the inclination to stop at home, so it's a good thing I dropped my suit in the locker room before my shift. Five or six guys are already there. I could change in the showers, but I don't feel like it. I could also leave my underclothes on, but I don't feel like doing that, either. Let's test some engineers' professionalism. They can't all be _that _heterosexual.

A-ha. I catch one looking and wink at him. He turns bright red and looks away. I smirk, finish getting dressed, and "accidentally" bump into him on my way out, slipping my number into his back pocket for in case I'm wrong about getting Reaped. He's not even good-looking, but whatever; I don't have to look at his face and I've got no plans for tonight.

The subway to the Square is packed with boys in suits and girls in dresses. I smile at the girl next to me. I don't remember her face, but her chest rings a bell. She wasn't bad, as I recall.

Oh, and what a delightful coincidence: the guy across from me is another old conquest. It's like a high school reunion, except instead of high school it's my pants.

"Ariel!" he says with a grin. The kind of grin that says in his mind, I'm _his _old conquest. Ha. Good one. I got what I wanted; whatever he got out of it was incidental. I like what I like and I don't appreciate it when people start thinking they've gotten the better of me somehow by doing exactly what I wanted them to do, when and how fast and for how long I told them to do it.

Morons.

I smile back. "Hey."

"You look nice."

"Thanks," I say. _I'm going to throw you into a reactor, _I think.

"You around tonight?"

I check my phone. Plenty of messages, but nothing from the locker room guy. I don't take it personally; the shy, awkward types flake out on me a lot. I'd be intimidated by me, too. "Looks like I am."

"Meet me after the Reaping?"

"Sure."

I'll be very insulted if I don't get Reaped. So if I _am _around tonight, I'll be pissed. I have a feeling that I can take it out on this clown if I play my cards right. Consent is key, of course, but it's surprisingly easy to turn things around on the smirking, swaggering, macho type. They can't pass up a challenge. _You're not scared of me, are you? Come on, you can deal it out but you can't take it? No? Then prove it. _

The station is a clusterfuck getting out and I'm among the last people to the Square. The Mayor has already started talking by the time I reach the Seventeens. Well, fine, I didn't want to hear it anyway. I sense that I'm a little disheveled and worse for the wear after my fight with the crowd, but a quick check in my phone camera assures me that it's in a good way.

Our escort slouches onto the stage, almost tripping on jet black hair that's longer than she is tall. For the first time, I'm nervous. Not about the Games themselves. What if I'm Reaped and I get a terrible stylist? I'm not sure I can handle that.

"Girls first," the escort hisses, baring her teeth at the crowd. Her canines are elongated and filed to points. I get the feeling it's Halloween all year 'round for this chick.

She closes her eyes and plunges her hand into the Reaping Ball like she's about to pull out Excalibur. The crowd goes dead silent.

"Luther Constantine."

Who in the fuck is that? I thought I knew everyone near my age, at least in the Biblical sense.

I can't see her until she appears onstage from the Eighteens. Calm enough. Smiling graciously, in an I-hope-you-all-fall-in-a-hole sort of way. Almost as tall as me and at least as slim, borderline bony in her case. Brown hair like mine, not much longer. Sharp, handsome features. Pale. Aside from her light blue eyes, she could be mistaken for me from a distance.

I had _better _get Reaped. That's awesome.

"Now… the boys," the escort whispers gravely. What is she, thirteen? It's like she's about to announce a death or something.

Oh. Hah. Right.

"Ariel Sevasti!"

Someone pick up the phone, because _I called it._

I keep my face blank and solemn and make my way to the stage. This time the crowd gets out of my way. Goddamn right.

Luther looks me up and down unabashedly, raising a _not bad _eyebrow. I give her an _I know, darling _smile.

We shake hands. Hard. Looking each other in the eye, and she doesn't look away, and I'm sure as hell not going to, so we stand there in a silent battle of wills. She's even more interesting up close. Her short hair is messy. There are dark circles under her eyes. She's pale and almost starved-looking, but not in a weak way. More like she might rip me to shreds like a wild animal any second. And she's one of those people who radiate a certain calculating intelligence, like she knows something I don't and she's already planned how to take me down with it.

Why do I get the feeling, just from the name and the look of her and the way she's looking at me, that she might just give me a run for my money? Now _that _is an interesting thought. A girl who could actually put me on my knees. It's never happened before, not even close, but damn.

Unless, of course, I get her first.

**So… yep.**


	5. Reapings: Atlas

**Second-to-last Reaping, then a Justice Building chapter, then finally some tribute interaction!**

**Atlas Edenthaw, District Eight, 17**

I have some sympathy for genuinely terrible people. The ones who can't help it, because they couldn't be good if they tried; they just don't know how. To me, the worst people are the ones who know exactly how to be better, but keep doing the wrong thing anyway.

I'm not usually the type to sit around philosophizing, but I've got nothing better to do because the sun's not up yet, I can't go back to sleep, and my mother just ran away from me in tears.

It's not that she's scared of me or anything. I'm not _that _immoral. But as long as she keeps talking about what a heartache I am to her and how much she wishes I would only date girls, I can't help replying in kind. _And _something she did made my father leave. He was scum too, of course, but still.

At least our house is big enough to get some distance between us.

I pull my shoes on, grab a piece of bread, and leave, too restless to sit in my room anymore. The Square doesn't even open for two hours and there's nothing to do there but stand and wait anyway. How would my friends react if I woke them up? They'd take it in stride, I think—Thorburn might put me in a headlock, but he'd get over it—but the more I think about it, the less appealing it is. I love my friends, but I think I want to walk around alone right now.

The Peacekeepers give me suspicious glares as I slouch past them. Wiltshire gives me a particularly dirty look, and I give him one right back. I'm no criminal, but I'm no Capitol suck-up either. Plus I banged his sister. Well, she asked; what's he mad at _me _for? So what if I climbed out her window the next morning? It's a cruel world out there, what was she expecting?

… Okay, yeah, it was a dick move. Whatever.

Even in the summer, it's a little chilly this early in the morning. The tall buildings and ever-present smog block out any chance of early sunlight reaching the ground. Even the sky is more gray than anything else. I want to do something, but there's nothing I want to do. I'm tired and cold and hungry and thirsty but not enough to do anything about any of it. I'm uncomfortable to the core. Something's not how it should be and it's making me even more unhappy than usual, but I have no idea what.

Maybe I'll find my friends after all. Talking to someone other than Mom might snap me out of whatever this is.

Gaius's building is closer. I jog the few blocks to the rickety tenement, checking my watch as I reach it. Still way too early to knock. Gaius might be okay with it, but his family is generally a bit less willing to put up with my bullshit. I scale the fire escape instead, counting floors as I go, careful to keep the metal from squealing under my shoes because I'm fucking considerate like that.

I freeze when a Peacekeeper walks past. Climbing fire escapes is one of those things that's probably not technically illegal, but just _feels _against the rules, to the point that the Peacekeepers may well jump on the chance to do something nasty to me. I've got a little more wiggle room than the average person—perks of being a manager's son, even if she _did _inherit the position rather than earning it—but they also all hate me. Better not to tempt fate.

I squint through the grimy window of the room Gaius shares with a few of his brothers, wondering how good my odds are of waking him up without bothering them.

Very good, as it turns out, because he's already awake, leaning against the wall with his knees tucked up to his chest, staring into space. I tap on the window. He jumps, whips around to face me, and relaxes. I settle back on my heels as he picks his way across the room, scribbling a note and dropping it on his eldest brother's chest before opening the window and joining me on the fire escape.

"Morning," I say.

"Morning."

"Nervous?"

"Duh."

"Don't be."

He raises an eyebrow. "Wow, that's brilliant. Never would've thought of that. Thanks, man."

"Here to help, bro."

Gaius is fifteen. He could be my cheeky little brother, and he acts the part perfectly, except he's actually brilliant. I'm pretty sharp when I want to be, but he's a scribbling-equations-on-the-wall caliber genius. I think half the dyes in the factory are his invention. If the world were fair, he'd be filthy rich. Instead he's just filthy. He mentioned a few days ago that their water stopped working and I guess it hasn't started again.

He's one of those stubborn die-before-taking-charity types, but I know him well enough to get around that when I want to. It's all in how you phrase it.

"Hey, want to come get ready at my house?" I say. "My mom's already up. I know how long it takes you to do your hair."

Gaius's hair is half an inch long, tops.

He yawns. "Yeah, sure. Can't go to the Reaping with ratty hair. Tabloids would be all over it."

He retrieves his thirdhand clothes from inside and we climb back down the fire escape. By the time we're back at my house, it's starting to be a semi-human hour to be awake, and various officials and ground crew are already zinging around. There's a colorful bustle at the far end of the street that might be the Capitol entourage arriving.

Poncey fucking douchebags. How do they stand themselves? Forget how evil they are, I just don't get how you wake up in the morning with cotton candy pink hair and no regret.

Mom is on the sofa when we come through the living room. She catches my eye, sniffles, and looks away. Whatever. I hustle Gaius upstairs before anything awkward can happen in front of him, sending him off to shower and occupying myself looking for my other shoe. I can't be that guy wearing sneakers with a suit. It's true that, from the deepest depths of my heart, I don't care, but sneakers with a suit looks like I'm trying to _look _like I don't care. I'm above that.

Only, wait, how many minutes have I spent now crawling around in my closet just so people will know how much I don't care about looking like I don't care?

I sit there for a second with my head tilted and my eyes narrowed, wondering how to wriggle out of the logic bomb I just dropped on myself. Man, life is complicated.

Oh, look, there's my other shoe. Problem solved.

It turns out to be a good thing Gaius and I started getting ready early. I don't begrudge him a long shower, but by the time we're done getting dressed and tripping over each other trying to track down ties and shoelaces, we're cutting it close. The walk downtown feels a lot longer in dress shoes. It's not a distance I'd usually do on foot, but the nearest parking places are even farther out than my house, so the old-fashioned way it is.

Gaius gets paler and paler as we go.

"Seriously, don't be nervous," I say.

He looks pained. "Look, Atlas, I've got a ton of tesserae."

I blink, my own lack of them suddenly glaring. "So what if you get Reaped? I'll go."

He stops dead. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I… like hell," he protests. "C'mon, what the fuck am I s'posed to say to that?"

"You could say 'okay, cool'."

"That is neither okay nor cool."

I shouldn't have told him. I mean it, but now it looks like I'm blustering around, trying to be a hero and earn his gratitude without actually doing anything. But he knows I'm not like that. Not for him, anyway.

"Forget it," I say. "You won't get Reaped, anyway."

"Yeah, I know."

xxx

He gets Reaped.

And I do hesitate. Enough that he must decide I was full of it after all, because he squares his shoulders and starts the long walk to the stage. No help from his brothers, they're mostly bastards and too old anyway. Thurston's aged out, too.

Every shred of logic says I should volunteer. He's more valuable than me. He's a better person than me. Haven't I always had a morbid fascination with the Games? Practiced whipping my belt at a chair and wondered what it would be like to be a contestant in them?

Yes. Yes, I have. He's a perfectly innocent, valuable little genius and I'm nothing special and a bad person to boot. This is the only good thing that matters. I don't have to think about it or fully comprehend what I'm doing. I just have to say the words.

"I volunteer!" I yell.

There's the usual excited bluster from the stage about a volunteer from an outer District. Gaius stops dead halfway up the steps, his expression dumbstruck.

_Told you, didn't I? _I grumble at him mentally.

I pass him on my way up. He gives me a scared, shocked look. "Atlas, what the fuck?"

"I'll be fine."

"You sure as hell won't!" he hisses.

"Not the point. This is how I want things to be."

The Peacekeepers are getting twitchy. I find Thurston, who's shoved his way to the front of the crowd, and propel Gaius in his direction. He'll be alright.

Our escort looks like a flamingo. I make a point of looking somewhere else and find myself meeting eyes with our lone mentor, a woman in her seventies. She's remarkably well put-together, at least for an outer District mentor. Her lucidity is an achievement in itself. She nods at me respectfully, and I nod back, ignoring the sickish feeling that I don't deserve it. That wasn't bravery. That was fear of watching Gaius die, and apathy for my own life.

The next to size me up is our female tribute. Her name is Desdemona Crow. She's thirteen, short and stocky, dark-skinned. Her light brown eyes are dry. She doesn't strike me as dangerous, exactly, but there's something solid about her. She incites a strange kind of respect. What are the odds that she'll find me equally tolerable?

"That was brave," she mutters.

Fuck it. I'll just go with it.

I sigh. "Thanks."


	6. Reapings: Carmen

**Carmen Alvarez, District Eleven, 16**

It's the absence of noise that wakes me up. There should be kids running around, shops opening, the market setting up. Just a general bustle as District Eleven fires up. But there's nothing, only a tense silence as dreary as the gray sky. Without the fresh bread and spices from the market to brighten things up, the only scent in the air is mud.

Mmm. Smells like Reaping Day.

Lucky for me the inn is equally silent. It's a miracle I got a room so close to the District capital with nothing but puppy dog eyes and the promise that my parents would be along in the morning to pay. Ha. Hahaha. Good one, me. I collect my things and toss myself unceremoniously out the second-story window.

_Splat._

My boots sink into mud up to the ankle, splattering dirty water up my skirt. A cat hisses at me and scuttles away.

Today is not going to be a good day.

"What– Hey!" the innkeeper's voice yells from an upstairs window. That would be my cue to leave. I take off across the small yard at a dead sprint. By the time he can draw breath to yell again, I've vanished into his cornfield.

I cut through it at a tangent that will take me to the road maybe a mile down. He won't bother chasing me. The inn has to be full beyond capacity; one runaway customer isn't worth leaving the whole building unattended.

I stick my head out of the corn and find myself a few feet behind a Peacekeeper. He whips around before I can pull back.

"Hello," he says blankly.

I step out of the corn and adjust the scarf tied around my head, looping under my ponytail, and give him a polite nod. "Morning."

"Any reason you were, uh…?"

"Meditation," I say earnestly. "So much growth and greenery. Very good for the chi. If you want, I would be happy to tell you all about–"

"No! I mean, no, no, don't let me keep you. You ought to be getting along to the Reaping," he says.

I sigh. "I suppose you're right, sir. But remember to take care of your chi. Look into it."

"Er… yes, certainly."

I sweep him a curtsy, hop the ditch, and start up the road. My stomach growls. Damn the Reaping for closing the outdoor markets.

Amélie will give me food, whether I like it or not. I can tell it makes her day when I accept some. Maybe I will today. It'll lighten her mood, and, let's be honest, being hungry is no fun. Less so when I have to stand around for hours waiting to find out who's going to die.

Bit by bit, fields and the occasional rickety wooden stall are replaced by the closest thing District Eleven has to a city. I pass the Mayor's huge, grand house—Amélie's house—without a second look. We don't meet there. Amélie's mother has an unfortunate habit of swooping in on and doing away with anything that makes her happy. I flatter myself that I make her happy, and I would rather not be done away with, hence me keeping my distance.

Amélie won't be there, anyway. She'll be at our spot, an unused third-floor apartment above the butcher's shop. It smells like blood, but it works.

She's already there when I tumble in through the window, settled on a chair that's draped ghostlike with a white sheet, feet tucked under her. She's the picture of frail beauty, all skinny limbs and thin, strawberry blonde hair, dressed up like a doll in a stiff, pale pink dress.

Amélie glances up at the _thud _of my boots on the ground, deliberately obvious to avoid sneaking up on her and startling her. The worried crease between her eyebrows vanishes and her face lights up. There's something warm and golden and magical in knowing it's because of me. As long as she believes in me, I can take on the world.

We're not as careful as we should be. I think the only reason Amélie's mother doesn't know about us is because everyone loves Amélie and no one wants to get her in trouble. Usually I can hide what I'm thinking, but my friends tease me up, down, and sideways about the look I get when she comes up in conversation. Once a mutual friend told me how Amélie goes on and on about how great I am and I blushed enough for it to show even on me.

Basically, everyone who knows either of us knows it's only a matter of time until we elope into the wilderness or something. But they keep it to themselves. Sometimes people don't suck.

My stomach growls. Amélie tosses me a piece of bread wordlessly. I catch it and tear off a piece, trying not to feel like a fish gasping up at the little kid on the dock throwing down crumbs. I have no idea why accepting a gift feels so much worse than stealing, but it does. At least theft requires guts and skill.

"How'd you sleep?" I mumble around the mouthful, perching on the arm of her chair.

"Mm," she says with a noncommittal shrug. The dark circles under her eyes answer my question well enough. Amélie is beyond terrified of the Games, and honestly, I don't blame her. She's wonderful and perfect and she wouldn't last ten seconds.

"You'll sleep better tonight."

"If things go well. I hope so."

"They never Reap Mayors' kids, unless they're mad at the Mayor," I reassure her. "And your parents haven't done anything."

"Yeah," she says uneasily. "You didn't take any tesserae, did you?"

"Nope."

She relaxes a bit, leaning her head against my upper arm. "Good."

I wrap the arm around her shoulders instead, pulling her in closer so she's leaning against my side. She's so _skinny. _She should be the most well-fed person in the District, but when she leans forward a little I can see her shoulder blades through her dress. Sometimes I suspect she starves herself as a sort of penance for being the Mayor's daughter, refusing to eat more than the poorest person in the District.

Which is silly, because technically I've got nothing but the clothes on my back, my knife, and whatever odds and ends I'm carrying at the moment, and I eat just fine most of the time. I'm still small-framed and flat-chested to boot, but Amélie makes me look downright voluptuous.

"Did you have breakfast?" I ask.

She bites her lip. I scowl.

"You didn't," I accuse, shoving the rest of the bread into her hand. "C'mon, I don't want you passing out. Too hot to stand there for hours on an empty stomach."

Amélie nibbles on the bread halfheartedly. I do my best to keep the blatant pity off my face. For all the happy, optimistic act she puts on, she's the most miserable person I know deep down. I don't blame her. At least I'm free. I get hurt sometimes, but I've got a say in it. She's trapped in that pink dress and everything that goes along with it, her will and independence atrophying as they're restricted year after year.

"Wanna come to the Firepit after the Reaping?" I say. The Firepit is the unofficial headquarters for kids like me, who left home and never went back, or never had one in the first place. It's dirty and uncomfortable, but it's somewhere to go when you need somewhere safe to sleep. I spend one or two night there a week keeping watch, but I can usually get a room at an inn.

Amélie loves it. She tries to conceal it, but I can tell she's got that rich-girl fascination with life on the other side of the poverty line. I don't blame her; she can't help it. Plus it means she gets to dress in loose, ratty clothes and fall in the mud and not worry about it. I bring her along when I can. It's not like there's much else I can give her as a gift, as much as I'd like to shower her in flowers and chocolates and diamonds.

Amélie nods. "If Mom doesn't tell me to be somewhere. We should go to the Square, though."

I glance out the window to check where the sun is. She's right.

We bail out—she's surprisingly coordinated for a frail girl in a tight dress and heels—and stroll out of the alley with nothing-to-see-here looks on our faces. Just two teenage girls hanging out behind the butcher's shop, as teenage girls tend to do. Move along, folks.

Amélie's eight months older than me, but luckily our birthdays fall to put us in the same year on Reaping Day. We stand next to each other at the back of the Sixteens pen, clutching each other's hands and keeping an eye on her parents, who are running around setting things up onstage. Whenever they look up, we sidestep away from each other, snapping back together as soon as they return their attention to the speakers or whatever.

It gets hot. Then it gets hotter. The Mayor drones on and on. The escort bounces and prattles. Amélie gets paler and paler, her hand settling in mind with more and more weight. She sways a little and I sling her arm around my shoulders.

This is why I don't actually ask her to run off into the woods with me. Maybe it's just because she doesn't eat enough, but maybe not, and I don't want to take her away from Panem on the off chance that there's actually something medically wrong with her. I _think _she would tell me, but she's one of those infuriating people who will drop dead before asking for help because they don't want to inconvenience anyone.

"Carmen Alvarez!"

"Huh?" I mutter, glancing up at the sound of my name.

Amélie gasps. Her eyes widen, then flutter shut, and I barely catch her before her head smacks the ground. It sinks in a second later. I just got Reaped. I wasn't paying attention; Amélie was.

A Peacekeeper catches my eye and jerks his head at the stage. I hold up a _one second _finger and lower Amélie the rest of the way to the ground carefully. There's barely space. She'll get stepped on if any of the nearby girls move; they can't possibly want me to just _leave _her there?

Someone grabs my elbow. I barely stop myself from whipping out my knife and sinking the blade into the man's arm.

"Hang _on," _I growl at him.

"You were Reaped."

"Yup, got the message, thanks. Just give me a second, I have to make sure–"

He wraps an arm around my waist and drags me backwards.

"_Hey!" _I yell at him. "First of all, ex-_cuse _you–"

I crane my neck, struggling to get a look at what's going on in the crush of girls. To my relief, I see Amélie's face, blinking dazedly. Two other girls have hoisted her upright and catch my eye, giving me a _we've got her _nod. Bless them.

The Peacekeeper yanks on me again.

"Knock it off," I grumble, slipping out of his grip and dodging away before he can grab me again. "I'm going, I'm going."

I try not to watch as Amélie slowly gets her wits back. First I see her trying to talk to the girls holding her, but I can tell by their faces that she's not making sense. Then she seems to remember what happened and her eyes get wide again. She gets more urgent, squirming in their grip, and now they're restraining her. Finally she makes eye contact with me. _Calm down, _I try to convey through gestures. _Just wait. Please don't start screaming. Please? For me?_

She bites her lip and her shoulders slump. Phew.

Somewhere in the middle of our little soap opera, a boy gets Reaped. Elfor Evain. Fourteen. Cutish, freckled kid, but that's all I notice.

Fuck this. Fuck this by an angry stallion. I knew today would be a bad day, but this is way too far.

**And that's it for Reapings. Praise the lord.**


	7. Justice Building: Reyna

**Reyna Alcott, District 6, 18**

There's been some kind of mistake.

I ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach that says I'm deluding myself. Something's gone wrong. People get Reaped for doing something _wrong, _and I'm the Head Peacekeeper's daughter. I follow the rules. I enforce the rules. How did I get Reaped?

Is it possible that I _did _do something wrong? I don't see how. I've memorized every law of Panem and District Six and I follow them to the letter. I'm no hypocrite. And I'm surrounded by Peacekeepers; even if I somehow slipped up, someone would've told me.

Which leaves the possibility that I'm completely innocent, and this is happening to me anyway.

I look around the room to distract myself from that train of thought. There's no law against thinking what I was about to think, but there should be.

Most of my friends are Peacekeepers. They'll be too busy… well… keeping the peace to come see me. As they should be. Akiyoshi will get here eventually, though, and so will my dad. So I just have to keep it together until they arrive, and then they'll sort this out. Figure out what happened and set it straight. Obviously whoever's in charge of the Reapings made some kind of mix-up.

Will they fix it, though?

That's not a good thought, either, but it's too late. Can they go back on a Reaping? I don't see how. So even if I wasn't meant to die…

I grit my teeth and breathe out hard through my nose, shifting on the sofa at the back of the room. One of the Peacekeepers gives me a sympathetic nod. I can't tell who it is through the mirrored visor, but I give an unhappy, _I-know-right _look back.

The door opens and Akiyoshi comes in, still in his Peacekeeper uniform, helmet tucked under his arm, jet black hair standing up crazily. I sit up straight and wipe any trace of distress from my face.

"Reyna," he says in a tone I've never heard before and don't know what to do with.

"Yeah. Hi. What's going on?"

"Well, I… Y-You were Reaped."

"Yeah, but… they're not… you know, fixing it?"

He shakes his head slowly. "It's done. There's nothing anyone can do about it." He thinks about that. "Well, I mean, there is, but…"

I stare at him. "Well, can they get on with it? There are three people I'm supposed to interrogate today."

"No, I… I was kidding. Not really. I just meant, you know, the Capitol could cancel the Games, but… no."

My stare turns into something like a glare. "Yeah, no."

"I know. So… you'll win, right?"

"How should I know?"

"You'll try?"

"Yeah."

"No matter what it takes, though. There are no rules in there."

"There are always rules."

Akiyoshi laughs. "Well, you make them in there, okay? But promise me rule one will be 'don't die'?"

"Okay. I promise."

"Thanks. Here, will you take this?"

I frown and lean forward to see what he's got in his hand. A ring. "What the hell?"

"You know. To remind you. If you'd take it as you token, it would really… I'd appreciate it."

Can't hurt. "Sure, okay," I shrug, taking the ring from his palm and putting it on. He blinks and a weird expression crosses his face. Okay?

Another Peacekeeper sticks her head in. "Mikami, her dad's here. Scram."

Akiyoshi opens his mouth, closes it again, gives me one last gooey-eyed look, and scuttles out.

Ooooo-kay?

Dad walks in and my stomach starts doing backflips. I didn't know I was this upset until suddenly I'm freaking out at him.

"Did I do something?" I ask.

"What? No, no, you didn't–"

"So then why am I Reaped?" I accuse. My voice is already climbing toward screechy levels, but I don't bother reeling it back down. "You only get Reaped if you deserve it, you know that, the Capitol doesn't just kill random kids–"

"Reyna, I have no idea what happened, but you didn't do anything wrong." He sounds just as shell-shocked as I am. "I don't… If there was anything I could do, but…"

"What the hell," I whisper, staring into space.

He sits down next to me and hugs me. "I know."

"I don't want to go into the Games."

It's absurdly childish and I know it, but I think I'm entitled to a moment of childishness. This is insane. I'm too busy for this. I'm useful. I'm more than useful, I'm _critical; _no one gets information like I do. They're all too nice to do what it takes. Yeah, Dad says I go too far sometimes, but that's because he's too compassionate for his own good, the type of person to run around District Six in the snow leaving food on people's porches.

Not that I have a problem with that per se. But when it comes to getting dead serious, making someone understand that they will do what's right whether they like it or not or they will suffer, he's useless. They all are.

"I'm sorry," Dad says helplessly, hugging me tighter.

I stare at the wall dumbly, tense and shivering in his arms even though it's already hot out and I'm wearing my usual leather jacket. I _still _can't wrap my mind around what's happening. This isn't _right. _This isn't _fair. _People should be punished for doing something wrong but I haven't done anything wrong so why why why am I being shipped off to die on live TV?

Or maybe… maybe the Capitol knows exactly who I am, and they _meant _to Reap me? What if they want a good example of a citizen in the Games for once? Maybe I'll be used to show the virtues of good behavior. I'm supposed to punish the other tributes, who did something wrong and were Reaped for it. The Capitol will thank me for a job well done and send me home to keep enforcing justice.

Yes, that sounds right.


	8. Train: Viss

**Viss Bardier, 17, District 3**

It's the weirdest triumph that comes knowing I really, truly, from the bottom of my heart, do not care.

I'm not scared. I'm not sad. Barely anything has changed. Things are gonna come at me and I'll do as much about it as I feel like doing and that's all there is to it. I've got no one to disappoint, no dreams to lose, no reputation to worry about. I'm as much a spectator as the Capitolites.

Could be fun to watch, actually. I'm starting to see the appeal of the Games.

My compartment in the train is big and clean. I can't get used to the monotony of the train's wheels and the silence behind it. My hair is wet from my first shower in days, taken half to get the glowing naked escort to stop badgering me about it and half because I've got fuck-all else to do.

I never have anything to do. I work. I eat. I breathe. I fight when I have to. I don't have anything to read or whatever. I have vague memories of an older girl trying to find a hobby for me, handing me paper and pencils and a cheap plastic recorder and everything in between. I stared at them and resented her vaguely for trying to make me like something. Was I supposed to be grateful? Did I owe her? She was a perfectly okay person, I guess, but I didn't fucking _ask_. Leave me alone.

I don't get that about some people from the Districts. We're drones. Accept it or lead a revolution; don't delude yourself into thinking you matter. Hell, not giving a fuck about your own life is a superpower. No one can ever scare me because _I don't care._

So I lie on top of my covers in nothing but a pair of shorts, staring at the ceiling and waiting for a reason to get up.

Someone knocks on the door. That didn't take long.

It's Luka. His eyes go right to my chest, but snap up to my face just as quickly. He opens his mouth and closes it again like he's wondering if he should apologize or hope I didn't notice.

I stare at him until he ducks his head. This should be fun.

The silence stretches on until he accepts that I'm not gonna break it. "Hey," he says.

"Hey."

"I… um, sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"Don't worry about it. I know they're nice," I say in a monotone.

He's cute, in a lost-puppy sort of way. Pointy-featured, his hair wild and streaked with green and blue, but with innocent brown eyes. He holds himself like a weakling—shoulders hunched, arms crossed, taking up as little space as he can—but I can tell at a glance that even though he's small, he's wiry, and strong enough to do serious damage.

He chews his lip nervously. "So, I, um… Sorry to bother you, but I just… um…"

"Spit it out."

"Can I stay here?"

I stare at him some more.

"I-If it won't bother you. You don't have to talk to me, just, if I could sleep on the floor in here or whatever… I know it's fuckin' stupid, I do, okay? But I don't wanna be alone right now."

"I'm not good company."

"You mean that, or you'd rather I go back to my room?"

"I mean it," I say. "You do what you want. I don't care."

He skulks in. "So, um… _do _you mind talking?"

"Dunno what I've got to say. Don't mind you talking." I sit on the one chair, leaving him to stand around awkwardly until I gesture for him to sit on the bed. He glances at my chest again and his cheeks turn pink. This is too easy.

"I dunno what to say either. Which is funny, 'cause usually I never shut up, see," Luka muses. "It's kinda a problem. And then I start to wonder if people think I like the sound of my own voice more than silence, 'cause I'll just go on forever—I mean, case in point, right?—and it sounds bad but it's kinda true, I guess. But I'd rather not talk about nothing forever, but I dunno what to ask you that's not too personal."

"Nothing's personal. Capitol's gonna broadcast everything about us."

"Oh," he says. "Well… you miss anyone?"

"Eh."

"You really this quiet or just fuckin' with me?"

"Yes."

He laughs. "Yeah, you're fuckin' with me, aren't you?"

"Maybe. My turn. You wanna win?"

He stops laughing. "I wanna live. But…"

"You don't wanna do what it takes."

"Not even about whether I wanna. I can't, you know? So it's… I know I shouldn't go in hopeless, but there's just no fuckin' way, right?"

"Get lucky?"

"Not gonna happen, though."

The thought crosses my mind that I don't want him to give up. All at once, I think I want him to live, because he deserves it, and none of this is fair, and I'm picturing him splayed out on his back with his throat slit and those sweet brown eyes glassy and his dad breaking down hundred of miles away and I'm _angry–_

I remember I don't care. Luka doesn't matter.

"You okay?"

I blink. "What?"

"You just, uh… had an expression on your face, there," he says hesitantly. "Other than, you know, hate."

"What?" I say again, for lack of anything better.

"Never mind. I don't wanna mess it up if this is what you've got going on."

"If what's what I've got going on?"

"I dunno, total apathy? Everybody's gotta deal. Guess I should be taking notes, huh?"

I frown. "That's not how I deal. Or if it is, I'm nothing _but _dealing."

"That doesn't sound healthy."

"Well, if I'm alive in a few weeks, I'll have the money to hire a therapist and I promise you I'll do it. Happy?"

Luka smiles. "Yeah, actually."

What, so he cares about _me _now? And not even whether I live or die, he's worried about my _feelings_. How does someone get so goddamn squishy?

"Because I bet you could win, you know," he says earnestly.

I frown. "How come?"

"I dunno. You seem like knives would bounce off you."

"I'm not knife-proof, believe me."

He tilts his head. "You know that for sure? I mean– You don't have to answer that, sorry, I–"

"Told you nothing's personal," I shrug. "It's City Eleven, you know? Everyone gets stabbed a little."

"Stabbed a little," he repeats, and apparently decides to let it go when I shrug. "So you ever been away from Eleven before?"

I lose track of time. He does most of the talking, but I still speak more than I probably have over the entirety of the last year. He's an encouraging audience, curious and sympathetic about everything, and it's surreal to have someone's undivided attention. Respect, even. He looks at me like he thinks I know what I'm doing. When I smile despite myself at one of his stories, it seems to give him a massive confidence boost.

It occurs to me that I wish I knew him when he wasn't surrounded by strangers and about to die. Now and then I think he forgets for a moment, and I see a glimpse of what he must usually be like: bright, hyperactive, unexpectedly wry. And there's an odd, sharp grace to his movements that tells me he could be a menace in a fight if someone showed him how. He's so much more than he seems to think he is.

I learn all about Luka's father and his cat, his favorite books, how much he loves math even though he can't keep the trig functions straight. That earnest, hopeful look never leaves his face. I've never seen anything like it. This is the first time I've been with Luka one-on-one, but it's obvious his soul is for sale, he just doesn't know it.

I saw him get Reaped. He's not spoiled, exactly, but he's used to being treasured and protected; he needs people like people need air. He has no idea how vulnerable he is. And even though it's none of my concern, I find myself wanting to help him.

"Luka?" I say flatly, cutting him off in the middle of a story about how he had to climb a water tower to get away from a rabid dog. It's actually entertaining, and the enthusiasm with which he delivers it is endearing, but this is important.

He freezes in the middle of his impression of the lunging dog, then lowers his clawed hands self-consciously. "Yeah?"

"You know you can't spill your guts to everyone you meet, right? You've said enough to give me a big advantage if I wanted to kill you."

"Oh."

"Just sayin'."

He chews his lip for a moment. "So, uh… _do _you want to kill me?"

"Nah."

"Why not?"

"Apathy, remember? I've got no stake in this." It's true, but it's leaving out that growing, sinking feeling that maybe I _extra _don't want to kill him, personally.

He blinks. "Yeah, you do. Apathy or not. You can't just stand there and let someone murder you. I mean, I guess you have that right, but, y'know, please don't."

"Why do you care?" I ask slowly.

Luka looks at me like I'm crazy. "I dunno, why wouldn't I?"

He says it in such a _duh _voice that I realize he can't explain it any more specifically; giving a fuck is his default setting. It's weirdly encouraging, or it would be if I cared whether the world and everyone in it go to hell or not. I guess I've never been this close to someone normal.

I know in the abstract that most people do have hopes and dreams and loved ones and all that, but most people aren't from City Eleven. But I sense that even among non-psychopaths, Luka's softness is something special. Something worth fighting for. Maybe even caring about.

Goddammit.

**Thoughts? Feelings? Questions? Comments? Concerns? Limericks?**


	9. Train: Woohyun

**Woohyun Averi, District Four, 17**

I'm immensely disappointed to find that Amaris is not, in fact, a _total _moron. I'd been looking forward to making fun of her. I still will, of course, but it means I'm missing out on the exquisite sense of superiority that comes from insulting someone who doesn't realize they're being insulted.

Ah well. Nothing wrong with a good fight, either.

Our mentor, Raysa, sticks her head into the compartment. "Reapings," she snaps. "Watch them."

Amaris makes a disgusted noise. "I know what I'm doing, I'll get to it when I get to it," she snaps right back.

"You can say that after you win. Shut up and watch them." Raysa clicks the screen on before Amaris can object. "And take notes."

Amaris rolls her eyes and pulls out a nail file, stretching out and somehow managing to take up the entire sofa even though I'm also sitting on it. It's a real talent of hers, I've noticed.

"Uh," I interject. "'Scuse me."

"What?"

"Your foot is in my face."

"Good."

I roll my eyes right back and tickle her foot. She kicks me in the face. She doesn't have the leverage to do any real damage, but still, I resent that. My face happens to be very nice, thank you.

So I smack her leg. She kicks me harder, catching my shoulder this time. I grab her ankle and twist.

Something pulls my hair very very hard. Judging by the screeching, Amaris is getting the same treatment.

"Goddamn two-year-olds," Raysa snarls as she lets us go. "Watch. The fucking. Reapings. Before I throw you both headfirst off this train."

I'm just turning to shoot a smug look at Amaris when Raysa smacks the back of my head. "You especially," she growls. "You're not even a Career. Learn some manners before someone kills you."

"I volunteered; you think I'm not expecting to get killed?"

"_I'm _not going to get killed," Amaris sniffs.

I smack her foot away from my face again. "Yeah, good for you, princess. Get your foot away from me or you won't even make it to the Arena."

Raysa digs her nails into the back of the sofa. I think she's doing it to get her temper under control, right up until she grunts and flips the whole thing over, sending Amaris and me sprawling across the floor. She turns and walks out without a word.

"Well," I say lightly, staggering to my feet. "Not gonna lie, I for one am impressed."

"Bitch," Amaris mutters.

"Her or me?"

"Both. Ugh."

"Takes one to know one."

Amaris stares at me. "Wow, that would've been such a burn in third grade. Did you miss snack time or something? Want some carrot sticks so you won't be so grumpy?"

"_I'm _immature?" I laugh. "I'm not the one who volunteered for the sole purpose of ruining someone else's day."

That was Raysa's first question: precisely who the hell are we, and why aren't we Lowen and Riley, the expected tributes? Neither of us wanted to answer, but Raysa has a way of getting the truth out of people. That way, to be specific, is by stabbing skinning knives into the tabletop and locking the doors.

"Oh, yeah, that's _so _childish compared to you, Captain Teen-Angst-Mommy-Issues."

"Hey," I protest. "That's rude to bring up."

"Newsflash," she hisses, getting right in my face. "I _am _rude. Want another newsflash? You're ugly. See, I told you I was rude."

I laugh again. "I'm not ugly, don't lie. I'm handsome as fuck."

"You look like an Asian Ken doll."

"Bullshit, Ken _is _ugly. No bone structure. My cheekbones are the _best."_

Amaris glances at the screen, which has already reached the District Five Reapings. "That dude right there has better cheekbones than you. Case closed. Sucks to suck."

I glance up despite myself as the boy—Ariel, the screen says; who the hell names their son Ariel?—takes the stage. "Bullshit," I say again. "He's pretty, but my cheekbones are better."

"Liar. He is _so _much prettier than you."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Is not!"

"Is too-oo," Amaris sings, dancing around in a circle.

"Is _not!"_

"Here, let me consult the magic mirror," she says, walking up to an absurdly ornate mirror next to the screen. "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all, Angelface up there or this idiot?"

"Shut up," I grumble.

"Shh, I can't hear the mirror. What's that, magic mirror?" Amaris says, cupping a hand to her ear. She turns to address me. "The mirror says you're a little bitch."

I scowl, pick up a little figurine thing from the table, and peg it at her. It bounces off her ass. Which, to be fair, is formidable.

Amaris whips around, suddenly tense. Her voice drops dangerously. "Oh, you wanna go, princess?"

"Princess? I just called _you _princess."

"Yeah, well, you're princess too, princess."

I jab a finger in the direction of the Five boy onscreen. As much as I resent his cheekbones, I have to admit I wouldn't mind hitting that. "I think he's also princess."

"What-the-fuck-ever," Amaris says exasperatedly. "We can, like, number ourselves or something. I call Princess One."

"You know what? Fine. You can be Princess One."

The screen finally moves on to District Six, where an athletic-looking but clearly shocked, shaken girl is Reaped. The voiceover confides that she's the Head Peacekeeper's daughter. _Sucks when the nepotism doesn't quite come through for you, doesn't it, darling?_

The girl's District partner cusses spectacularly when his name is called, but then ties his hair up with a shoelace and strolls up to the podium, giving the crowd a winning smile. He's strong, too, and seems charismatic. Hmm.

The Seven girl is tall and fairly muscular-looking. Her blank reaction doesn't give away much, but a girl in the crowd starts screaming bloody murder. The boy is average height, cheerful-looking, blond and slim but definitely an athlete, one of those guys you can tell at a glance has been playing soccer since he was two. His reaction is a blatant _oh shit, _but he takes the stage calmly.

"Looks competitive this year," Amaris says with a sly sidelong glance, flipping the sofa upright.

"Sucks for you."

"Not really," she shrugs. "I'm still the best. But you'll be lucky to survive the first day."

"You all keep forgetting I volunteered for this," I yawn.

"On impulse."

"An impulse I stand by."

She raises an eyebrow. "You sure about that… princess?"

"Sure. Strong tributes make things more interesting."

The Eight girl is stocky for a thirteen-year-old, but just too young to pose a real threat, although she's got an odd kind of charisma to her. Her partner, another surprise volunteer, is tall and dark-haired like me, but with some muscle to him—the bastard—and sharp, handsome features. His posture is guarded and hostile, but he volunteered for a kid who must be his friend; he can't be as cold as he's acting.

Amaris laughs at my scowl. "Do we need to have a beauty pageant to see who's the fairest of them all?"

"You already used that reference."

"It's an extended metaphor, dumbass."

"That's not what a metaphor is, dipstick."

"Douchecaptain."

"Asstown."

"Asstown? First of all, I already used 'ass'," she lectures. "Second, what the colossal fuck is that even supposed to mean?"

"It means you're an ass, only instead of just one ass, you're a whole town full of asses," I explain patiently. "Obviously."

Amaris considers that, then nods. "You know what? That's fair."

"Thank you, I try."

"I'll still kill you, though."

"I know."

Around District Nine, things get weird. The girl is your everyday underfed street kid, but the boy is bad news at a glance. Small and skinny, pale, gray-eyed, white-blond hair. He goes dead still when his name is called. It's more than shock, it's upright, conscious catatonia.

Amaris frowns. "You getting a crazy vibe? I'm getting a crazy vibe, hardcore."

"I feel that," I agree. "Crazy eyes. Oh, man, he is _pissed._"

The boy blinks, shakes himself out of whatever he's fallen into, and takes a step toward the stage. His eyes narrow. He speeds up a little until he's sprinting headlong at the front of the Square, and even with the camera zoomed out I can see bared teeth. The Peacekeepers seem to realize that perhaps this is a problem and shift in his direction, but he's already within lunging distance of the escort–

The screen switches to District Ten.

"Aw, come on," Amaris complains. "I wanted to see that."

The Ten girl, a tall, calm, solid-looking rancher, seems to herald a return to normalcy, but her partner fucks it up again. He's a hulking beast of a boy. The announcer gleefully informs us that his name—Fenris—was given to him thanks to his curious habit of murdering livestock with his hands and teeth, having spent some years as a feral child before being adopted. He's been civilized since then, the voiceover goes on… or has he? Dun dun dunnn. Cue dramatic music.

I blink. "What the fuck?"

"Holy _shit, _though," Amaris cackles. "This is gonna be so fucked up. I want him and the Nine boy locked in a room."

"I want him and the _Five_ boy locked in a room," I say thoughtfully.

Amaris frowns. "What?"

"Huh?"

"Huh?"

"What?"

"Whatever," she grumbles.

Eleven yields a Romani-looking girl who's distracted by what must be either her best friend or girlfriend passing the fuck out on her. The boy is small, young, and scared-looking, obvious cannon-fodder. Twelve's girl is skinny, serious-looking, and reminds me a bit of a horse. The boy is another whopper of a human being, definitely from the mines, although there's something good-natured in his face.

Amaris rewinds it to the Career Districts. The One girl, Amelia, looks tall and strong—_really _strong—and like she's had one too many plastic surgeries. The boy, Ashler, is equally tall and athletic, gray-eyed and blond-haired. Both of then seem confident and at ease. The Twos are formidable as well, with Merona, a pale redheaded girl, and Jaiven, a tanned blond boy. So it's a full Career pack this year, aside from me. I can't wait to meet them. I'm sure we'll be one big, happy family.

We watch the Threes for completeness's sake. They're short, but the boy looks sinewy and quick and the girl looks ruthless.

Amaris makes a _not bad _face. "Damn. Strong field this year."

"Whatever."

"I wonder who'll kill you, if I don't?"

I shrug. "I'll probably have a heart attack brought on by your unfathomable stupidity."

"I don't think that's medically possible. So who's the dumbass now, dumbass?"

"Still you. Your ass is _so _dumb," I accuse. "Your ass failed kindergarten."

"Well, _your _ass didn't even make it through preschool."

Actually, I did get kicked out of preschool for making the other kids cry, but that's not the point. "Yeah, well, fuck you."

"You wish."

"_You _wish."

Amaris stares at me long and hard, until I'm sure she's about to either deliver some kind of epic comeback or knock me out. She takes a deep breath. "Ugh."

"Ugh?" I protest. "That's it? Ugh?"

"That's all you're worth. Princess."

The _nerve._

**… ****Yeah, I don't know what happened here either. The Careers are scary, I promise. So now every tribute has at least been briefly introduced. Thoughts? Bets? Requests for ultimate showdowns of ultimate destiny?**


	10. Train: Luther

**PLEASE READ THIS A/N FOR REAL. I don't even know what content warnings to put on this chapter. Noncon at a minimum, it's not graphic and the sexual aspect is almost incidental, but it's pretty clear what's going down. Female-on-male, if that's a factor. I feel just as weird publishing it this time as last time, but here we are. PM me if you want a more specific heads-up on what's in here. This is it for the Really Bad Stuff for a while, but it does get about this bad again for a while in… 120k words or so. So, uh, stay tuned for that I guess.**

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

Peacekeepers do not all come from District Two.

Moving the brightest minds in Panem disproportionately to District Five has had an interesting effect over the years: we are, collectively, very smart. The upper class, anyway. There's a lower class of people who have been in Five since the very beginning, but they're mostly the ones who work at grocery stores and mop up chemical spills. The class that defines District Five—the one that runs the power plants and does the experiments too dangerous to be conducted at the Capitol—is, on average, point eight standard deviations more intelligent than the Panem mean.

Of those people, plus high-testing kids shipped in from other Districts, the best of the best go to the Trade Institute at age twelve, where they're tracked into whatever path will lead them to the vocation they score best for. The Solars. The Nukes. The Meds. Drilled and formed into the Capitol's fresh batch of eggheads.

There's another round of selection at age fourteen, but you don't know about it unless you're chosen. Tactics. I was chosen.

It's the most cutthroat, ruthless, high-stress experience out there, except maybe the Hunger Games. Everything is a competition. Everything counts. More money is being poured into you than the entire population of District Twelve and you _will_ be worth it or else. You make the cut, or you die, because you're not going home. Can't have anyone spilling anything. As far as anyone outside Tactics knows, we all tragically vanished when we were fourteen, and that's all they'll ever know.

I'm near the top of the class. Not at the top. That's how you make yourself a target. I also happen to be the personal favorite of the officer in charge of testing and admissions, and I learn some interesting things that way. For example: Ariel Sevasti was seriously considered for admission, but rejected when closer observation revealed him to be a flouncing, self-absorbed prima donna who couldn't keep it in his pants for more than a day at a time. Yes, at age fourteen. Clearly a persona, but persuading him to drop it was deemed not worth the trouble, whatever that "persuasion" may have entailed.

And he is indeed vain, and melodramatic, and the single raunchiest human being I've ever had to deal with. But I know, quantitatively, just how intelligent and ruthless he is. It will be interesting to watch everyone else underestimate him, and to watch him underestimate me. He has his peculiar, ethereal kind of cleverness. You could exhaust yourself chasing phantoms, trying to figure out what's real. But he's in there somewhere. If you struck out behind that mask of his and kept going, no matter what, cornering him bit by bit, I think you could get him by the throat.

Metaphorically. Doing so literally is far less contentious; the boy is obsessed and insatiable.

I have the upper hand when he inevitably ends up in my bed. He's used to instant gratification from people who think he's out of their league. They fall under the spell of his charisma, or do exactly what he says for fear he'll change his mind. But I care very little what his agenda is. If he objects to something, I listen, but I ignore his orders and complaints until they fade away into increasingly polite requests, which I also ignore. He's got no _patience. _No discipline, no control. I doubt this will be the last time I exploit that. No wonder Tactics didn't want him.

It helps that both of us managed to bring backpacks aboard the train despite rules to the contrary. I achieved it by simply asking one of the Peacekeepers who's primarily loyal to Tactics, not the Capitol. Ariel, I am led to believe from the way he winked when I asked, resorted to… more questionable methods of getting his way, as he apparently often does. My backpack is full of electronics, strategic drugs, and deadly weapons. His contains far worse things. Everything I find, I turn on him. This, I think, was precisely his intention, although I intend to make it more than he bargained for.

There's also something I'm not expecting: notes. Several notebooks of scribbled equations. I'm not specifically familiar with it, but it's Nuke stuff. High-level. Maybe not even part of the curriculum. His handwriting is as beautiful as he is, sharp, slanted cursive, with an odd twist to the Zs. It's hard to believe such dignified equations came from someone… less dignified.

I've never had the opportunity to do this before, although the idea has always intrigued me. Tactics is a bit stingy when it comes to handing out live human beings as training tools; the disappearance rate in District Five is suspect enough as it is, and the Capitol has first dibs on prisoners. But the circumstances are perfect: a room to myself, my own bag of tricks, plus Ariel's as a bonus, and of course Ariel himself. So agreeable when I tied him to the bed. Not the slightest hint of hesitation, or any notion that maybe, just maybe, I am not a person who should be trusted like that.

Too late.

Step one is to play along. Go through more or less his standard procedure. It requires getting a bit more up close and personal than I prefer, but everything has a cost.

Step two is to escalate, but not enough to scare him. Refuse his indignant requests that I at least take my shirt off. Tighten the ropes from something that playfully restricts his movements into something much more serious. I'm not sure if he has the situational awareness to notice he's defenseless. He will.

Step three, I hurt him. He yelps as my fingernails dig into a pressure point on his neck.

"Ow, ease off a little," he complains, tugging at the ropes as he tries to pull away. "Where'd you even _get _that fr-?"

I cut him off with a much sharper jab, clapping a hand over his mouth when he breathes in sharply and I know he's about to yell.

"Ow," he says again weakly once I let him go. "Yeah, no more of that. Not a fan."

I raise an eyebrow, look him dead in the eye, and do it again.

He bites back the yell himself this time, spitting a few curses instead. "Luther," he says incredulously, the first hint of fear crossing his face. "I said no."

"Hmm. I assumed there was nothing you didn't like."

"You assumed wrong. Let me go, you're freaking me out."

"No."

"What the fuck do you mean, no?" he snarls, fighting the ropes again, but now I think he wants to attack me. Note to self: Ariel can get very angry, very quickly. Fun.

I ignore him, feeling along his ribs for a different pressure point, holding a knuckle against the easier-to-locate one on his sternum to keep the thrashing to a minimum. This is lovely; I've never gotten to practice like this before. The only problem is Ariel. I'm getting increasingly impatient with him; I'd like him to stay still and be a good practice dummy, but I suspect he'll bite me if I give him half a chance.

"Luther," he spits, right on cue. "I said let me _go_."

"Stop asking me that."

"I'm not fucking _asking!" _he screams, achieving surprising volume for someone so slim. That's going to be a problem for both of us. "I'm _telling _you to let me go or I swear to the Capitol I will get a vial of polonium and ram it up your motherfucking–"

"Language," I mutter, pinching the place on his ribs I was looking for and getting a piercing screech for it. "Wow. You need to shut up. Hang on."

He watches in disbelief, breathing hard, as I pull a bottle of pills from my bag. "No," he mutters. "You have got to be kidding me. We're not even in the Games yet, what the _fuck _are you-?"

I stuff four pills in his mouth and gag him. I might be overdoing it by a tiny bit, but he'll be fine, if a little dizzier than usual tomorrow. I don't think he needs to remember this. The Games will pit us against each other, of course, but there's no call to have anyone out for my blood specifically.

I ignore the icy, glittering rage in his eyes. It doesn't last long. Soon there's just pain, and then fear, and then the drugs kick in and it's a hazy mix of the two. That can't be fun, but it's not my problem.

I throw in a bit of what he came here for, even though I'd really rather not, because it works. He's just lucid enough to pull away and squeeze his eyes shut like I'm breaking his heart. Funny, he didn't seem very shy before.

At last it's time to see if I've succeeded. I take the gag off, bracing for a torrent of profanity and possibly an attempt at a headbutt, but he doesn't move a muscle. I clutch my shock stick in one hand and carefully untie his wrists with the other. He just lies there, his breathing shaky but regular, seemingly half-asleep.

Victory. I _told _Levin she should've signed me off for that interrogation class. I think she refused because she knew I'd be better at it than her.

Only I haven't gotten to that part yet. The pills are delicate to use. They're not a truth serum, exactly; just a curious mix of fatigue-inducing, focus-breaking, and of course fear-heightening. They can't make him answer me. But they can make him lose the motivation not to, combined with sufficient incentives to cooperate, and with any luck I've gotten it into his hindbrain that when I'm unhappy, he's unhappy. The other sedative that would blur his memory was to minimize the fallout, although the worst-case scenario is just having him upset with me. Who's going to do something about it, the Capitol? The thought of him crying to them about _this _of all things almost makes me laugh out loud.

"Ariel?" I say gently, a little singsong.

He flinches at the sound of my voice despite its softness. How very Pavlovian. A good sign.

"You're a Nuke, right?"

"Yeah."

"Who's in charge of the facility you work at?"

"Sullivan."

"Does anything happen there that's against the rules?"

"I dunno," he mumbles.

"Yes, you do," I say firmly, brushing my fingers along the bottom of his ribs. He makes a dismayed little noise and flinches again, but doesn't even try to pull away. I don't think he realizes he's not tied up anymore.

"I-I operate the reactor sometimes." His voice is still barely audible, words more than a little slurred, but they come out in a rush. "Because we're understaffed."

Well, that's boring, but it's proof of concept; that's obviously not something he'd usually tell me. I win. Good for me.

"Anything else?"

"There are some Peacekeepers in black uniforms sometimes, but I-I don't know what they do."

Black uniforms? That's Tactics. And I do happen to know about some experiments being done at a Nuke facility.

"They're scary," he adds unprompted, and I almost laugh again. What a gift this all is.

"Do you work at H-12, by any chance?" I ask.

No answer. His eyes are closed.

I jab his neck lightly. "Don't fall asleep on me yet. H-12, yes or no?"

"Yeah."

"Fancy that. Small world." I pack up my things, feeling very pleased with myself and resenting that I can't show Levin my handiwork. She'll pretend to think I'm exaggerating how well it worked. But she'll know I'm not.

I throw the room's spare blanket over Ariel and drag him onto my back like I'm about to judo-throw him. He's close enough to my size that it's not so hard to haul him down the hallway to the empty common car and sling him down on the sofa. There's another blanket in there. Upon reflection, I take mine back and give him that one instead. Evidence and all. No need to jog his memory about the blur that will be tonight.

I tuck him in neatly. He already seems to be out cold. "There you go. Sweet dreams."

xxx

Ariel is gone when I come out for breakfast the next morning. But a few minutes after I return to my room, the door opens. He flounces in and flops onto my sofa even though I'm already there, stretching out full-length, his back on my lap. "Morning. Did we fuck?"

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"Well, I don't know," he yawns, holding his wrist up to display purple bruises. "_Something _happened."

"Maybe you slept with the escort?" I suggest. "She seems like the type who'd share drugs with you."

"Huh. Yeah, maybe," he agrees. "How was your night?"

My attention snaps to his face too quickly, but he's not trained to notice things like that. "Quiet," I say.

"You're in a good mood."

Hmm.

His expression is perfectly agreeable, his tone casual. If anything, I overdid it with the drugs. There's no way. Studying him as closely as I can get away with doesn't give me a clear answer, and I find myself almost… not _scared. _Of course not. But more concerned than he has any business making me.

I shrug. "I've got the Games to look forward to, don't I? Very exciting."

He smiles up at me through drowsily half-closed eyes, stretching luxuriously and letting his head loll back, the gesture almost exaggeratedly relaxed. "I'm sure they will be."

**Well! Got that over with. For now. Hopefully I gave fair warning for that, both at the beginning of the chapter and earlier when I said this whole fic was going straight to hell.**


	11. Train: Desdemona

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

It takes me a few tries, but soon I can launch grapes from the table to my mouth using my fork as a catapult. Most of the time, anyway.

"I think your best bet is– Are either of you listening?" our mentor Polla sighs.

I sneak a glance at Atlas, who's slouching in the chair next to me, staring blankly at his plate. He ignores her.

"We're listening, sorry," I say on both of our behalves. I was listening, actually. I just happen to be able to listen and catapult grapes at the same time. It's a real talent, I think.

"Desdemona, your–"

"You can call me Des," I interrupt. "Er, sorry. Go on. Just, you know, it's a bit of a mouthful."

Polla smiles. "Des, I think you should ally with the outer District girls. I'm thinking Seven and Ten, maybe Eleven and Twelve. Three, too, if she turns out to be nicer than she looks. They look strong and with any luck they won't turn on you."

"Okay," I agree. Girl power alliance. I like it.

"Atlas, you could try to join that alliance if you want, but I think you'd be better suited to a smaller one. Someone rural. I hate to be rude, but you've barely got anything practical to offer but physical strength, so it will have to be someone who can't fight well. The Eleven boy, maybe? He'll be comfortable outdoors, but he's small."

Atlas frowns. "Fine, but how do you know it'll be outdoors?"

"I don't know for sure. It just usually is."

"Hmm. Okay."

"You don't sound certain," Polla says with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, it's just… what if it _isn't _outdoors? Then what do I do with my little nature guide?"

"Protect him. Kill him. That's up to you."

Atlas mutters something that sounds like profanity.

He's okay. He doesn't go out of his way to be malicious, but he's grumpy and distant. Difficult to talk to. I don't say it out loud, but I think Polla had an ulterior motive for suggesting we pursue separate alliances: he'll have a much harder time getting one. He's certainly stronger than me, but I'm more approachable, I guess.

"Nearly a full Career pack," Polla mutters, more to herself than us. "And they might go after the big boys from Ten or Twelve to make up for the rogue volunteer from Four. No chance of an outright battle with them going well. Either the arena has to get them or they have to self-destruct."

"Nothing we can do?" I ask.

"Just pay attention. See how cohesive they seem. If they argue a lot, the big pack won't last, but then you'll have lone Careers prowling around. That can be worse."

I sigh and catapult another grape, but I've been moving around while we talked and I lost my range. The grape bounces off my nose. Of course it does, I think grumpily. My nose is the size of a traffic cone.

Mom and Rosalind, of course, say my nose is totally fine. I _kind _of believe them, sometimes. But sometimes I'm not convinced.

Just like that, I'm daydreaming. Thinking of them doesn't make me sad, exactly, but it makes me not want to do anything else. I wonder if they've been forced to go to work today. Probably. They're both pretty important, an electrical engineer and a head tech operator, respectively. I don't want to lose them and I know they don't want to lose me. The separation is more an ache than a real pain, too inevitable to feel sharply. It just _is. _It's done. I'm on my own now.

But at least, until the moment I die, I'll have the memories of Rosalind pulling my hair into a bun despite my hair's intentions to the contrary on the morning of the Reaping, Mom teaching me little techniques of math and circuitry on weekends just for something to do. At least I _was _happy. I'm not dying with that box unchecked. I got a lot more out of thirteen years than plenty of people will out of their entire life.

Atlas gives me a weird, sidelong look, and I realize I'm bouncing back and forth in my seat. "Er," I say. "Sorry. What were we talking about?"

Polla frowns in a way that's obviously a concealed smile. "Don't get killed by Careers, in so many words."

I chew my lip and nod. "Advice duly noted. I'll do my best."

"There's always a weak link. If you're cornered, Des, catch the eye of whoever looks the most sympathetic and give them puppy dog eyes for all you're worth. If nothing else, they'll stall the rest and it could buy you time. Atlas, I… don't think that will work for you."

I look at myself in one of the omnipresent mirrors. Puppy-dog eyes? I've never tried. But after pulling a few faces at myself, I find one that seems sufficiently pathetic.

"Now, chariots. That depends on who your stylist is, actually, which your escort _still _hasn't told me," Polla grumbles, heaving herself up from the table shakily. "Excuse me a moment while I find that banshee nightmare flamingo woman."

She grabs her cane from the wall and totters out of the train car, leaving me alone with Atlas. I expect him to keep glaring at the silverware, but he turns to me immediately. "So."

"So," I agree. He's at least a foot taller than me and solidly broad-shouldered. I'm not going to suck up, but I have no intention of picking a fight, either.

"You're taking this pretty well," he says. His voice is almost hesitant, like _he's _intimidated by _me. _What?

I shrug. "I could cry, but it wouldn't help. I'd be more upset and everyone at home would be upset that I'm upset and it would add to the drama and the Hunger Games would rake in more ad revenue. Screw that."

"Ad revenue," Atlas repeats. "Huh. Didn't even think of that. Those fuckers."

He's a good guy, I think. But weird. He means well, but he doesn't know it, so there's an uncertainty to everything he says and does that makes you question his intentions until you figure it out.

"If I _do _get into an alliance, do you want to be part of it too?" I offer. "If you don't want to ally with the Eleven boy?"

"Maybe," he says slowly. "I want to meet everyone first. But… thanks, I appreciate that."

"No problem."

"Guess you're a better ambassador than me, aren't you?" he laughs.

I blink. "Uh… I don't know."

I do know. It's true. He's handsome, in an out-of-my-range-of-interest, older boy sort of way, but something about him reminds me of a bird of ill omen. I can picture him sitting on a telephone pole cawing at people when they're about to die.

Okay, maybe that mental image is a _bit _improbable, but still. He's got the _spirit _for lurking in high places and cawing at unsuspecting passers by.

Polla throws the door open unceremoniously and clumps back in. "Okay, bad news. Your stylist is an idiot."

"Oh," I say.

"There's nothing you can do to make the chariots go well, so just try not to make them a disaster, and mentally prepare yourselves to be paraded in front of millions of people dressed as spools of thread or something."

Atlas and I exchange alarmed glances. "Okay," I say for both of us.

"Now, the interview angle: Desdemona– I mean Des, you can be fairly straightforward. You're the youngest tribute and that's a decent strategy. Just be yourself. Atlas…" She rolls her eyes. "If you're comfortable with it, the flirty angle could work for you." She says "flirty" how some District people say "Capitol."

Atlas's face is unreadable. "I can do that, yeah."

"Okay. Well, make it good, because from the looks of the rest you won't be the only one trying it." Another eye roll. "Be charming, but be a gentleman. Nothing dirty."

The train emerges from a tunnel and my eyes go wide. The Capitol. "Wow," I gasp, jumping up from the table and running to the window without thinking.

Everything is bright and colorful and huge. We're still a ways out, winding down the side of a mountain into the valley the Capitol sits in, but the lights alone are the most impressive thing I've ever seen. Every color of the rainbow, wound along and built into every surface, blasting into the sky.

"Those fuckers," Atlas mutters again, but he's joined me at the window, his nose practically pressed to the glass.

"Yeah," I agree breathlessly.

It's like a fairy tale. The buildings remind me of fancy cakes. There are fireworks above what must be the President's manor, and they seem to move in slow motion. They're for us, I guess, or at least about us. It's absurd, but beautiful nonetheless.

Atlas turns his back with a disgusted breath and a sidelong glance at me.

"What?" I protest.

"Not mad at you. Just, you shouldn't be here."

I shrug. "No point in worrying about it. It's different, at least. The food's good. Enjoy it while it lasts."

Now he looks sick.

"Are you okay?" I ask. Stupid question, I guess. Just because he volunteered doesn't mean he isn't scared to die.

He opens his mouth, closes it again, and turns to Polla. "What are our chances? Be honest."

"For you… well, it's mostly a matter of–"

"Not me," Atlas cuts her off. "Her."

Polla glances at me and frowns. "How does me speculating help anything?"

"If I'm old enough to get murdered, I'm old enough to know about it," I point out.

She considers that and nods. "Fine, then. Without intervention, the chances are slim to none. But you're the obvious underdog. If the Gamemakers decide they want an upset, you're a good choice. If not…"

I understand where she's going with it. "Gotcha."

Okay. Well… let's do this, I guess.

**So… you guys still here after that last one? :P**


	12. Chariots: Jukai

**Educational fun fact of the day: particularly for someone who works with quantum and/or nuclear physics, the Bohr model—that's the nucleus in the center with the electrons orbiting it in circles like planets—is spectacularly obsolete. It's basically a really rough approximation of an atom that explains some effects, but is useless once you're working past a certain level of detail.**

**Jukai Westell, District Seven, 18**

I study myself in the mirror thoughtfully. "So what am I supposed to be, exactly?"

"Forest spirit," my stylist says in his soft, spaced-out voice. "You are one with the trees. Yes."

I purse my lips at my reflection and nod. "Okay. Sure."

I learned quickly that he's one of those people you have to just go along with, mostly because he's high as a kite and any objection I make bounces right off anyway. It could be worse, I guess. At least I'm not a lumberjack for the ten thousand and first year in a row. I'm not sure the dainty brown leather leggings really go with my hairy soccer calves, but whatever. It probably looks good on Kaya, anyway, wherever they dragged her off to.

The stylist's face lights up. He gives me a _you're gonna love this _look and digs around in a drawer.

"Wait, now what are you-? Oh, I get a flower crown, okay, that's… okay," I trail off weakly. But whatever, I could prance out there in a ball gown and still look macho compared to some of those other guys. "So is that it? We done here?"

The stylist gives me a ditzy smile and makes a spinning gesture with his finger.

"What?"

He does it again.

"You… you want me to twirl? Is that it?"

He nods.

I think about it for a solid three milliseconds. "Yeah, you know what, I'm gonna have to pass on that one, sorry, man."

My stylist's face falls. I feel bad, but honestly.

"So… do I go out there now?"

He nods glumly.

"Cool. Well, thanks, man. I think I look good."

That cheers him up a little. He ushers me out the door to the elevator. It's a silent, herb-scented ride down, then we step out into utter insanity.

The first person I notice is the pale-haired District Nine boy crouched way too close to me, wide-eyed and tense. His posture reminds me of a horror movie monster that stays right where it is until you get too comfortable, and then pounces and rips your face off. I give him a polite nod and promptly remove myself to the other side of the hangar-sized room.

It would be hard to find the other tributes in the clamor if not for the ridiculous outfits. Some worse than others, of course. The higher Districts are formidable, even the Threes in all black and neon. The Careers look awesome as always—admittedly very revealing diamond clothes for the Ones, a gold dress and suit for the Twos, and flowing sea-foam colored outfits for the Fours. Things start to break down around the Fives, who seem to be giving each other the _we-will-never-speak-of-this-again_ cold shoulder. The girl is in the chariot, her posture upright like a soldier but her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed, staring straight ahead. The unnervingly pretty boy is crouched against the chariot wheel, his head in his hands. He looks like he might cry.

"The Bohr model," he mutters under his breath, his tone one of utter horror. "Oh, gracious. The _Bohr _model."

He does indeed seem to be dressed up as an atom. Fake electrons orbit his head on wire frames. It's not _flattering, _but I don't see anything wrong with it. Who knows; he struck me as a bit of a freak show. I keep walking.

The Six boy seems to be a chauffeur and the girl is in a black jumpsuit with strips of LEDs. Could be worse.

"I'm a runway," she grumbles when she catches me looking.

"Oh. That makes sense."

She mutters what sounds like profanity under her breath.

"Well, nice to meet you too."

The boy catches my arm as I'm turning to leave. He's maybe an inch and some change shorter than me, but a bit more muscular. "Wait, what's your name?"

"Jukai, you?" I say, adjusting my flower crown self-consciously. It does smell nice, though.

"Ted. So are you one of the sane ones?" he asks, running a hand over his chin and frowning a little like what he finds there isn't what he expected.

"Uh… I guess so. No one's ever told me otherwise."

"Yeah, you seem normal," he decides. "The bar's pretty low around here, I think. I mean, you're up against the Interrogation Queen over here."

"Hey," his District partner snaps.

"Just messing with you."

She scowls and crosses her arms. "I didn't do anything crazy. You wouldn't even know if the mentor didn't ask."

"I know, I know. I'm not trying to judge your life. Just saying it's not the _most _normal thing to spend your time kicking people around in your Dad's basement."

"Yeah, well."

Ted turns back to me. "This is Reyna," he explains. "She's fine, just angry. Be nice to her or she'll probably do something awful to you."

Reyna's expression brightens. "Yeah, I might."

"Oh," I say for lack of anything better. "I guess that's good to know. Nice to meet you."

"So what'd you do?"

It's such a non sequitur that for a second I'm not sure she's talking to me. "Huh?"

"You know. To get Reaped. What'd you do wrong?"

"I… Does it work that way?" I ask. "I don't think it works that way."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course it works that way. So what was it?"

I consider it. "Huh. Um… man, I really don't know. Nothing that's worth the death penalty, that's for sure."

"It might not be," Ted points out. "Maybe you'll live. Think positive."

"There you go," I agree. "Only way to be. Could be I'll just be traumatized for life."

Would I be? I have no idea. I'm a horror-movie-and-violent-video-games kind of guy, yeah, but still. Soccer is the most violent thing I do in real life, and I'm far from the meanest guy out there. I'm not the kid who stands up to the bully, but I'm not a bully, either, or at least I don't mean to me. Not a reject or the leader of the pack. I'm just _here, _doing my thing, getting B's at life. I can't imagine myself hurting anyone, but I know most people are the same way, right up until they get into the Hunger Games. Could I really kill someone to save my own life?

Guess I'll find out in a few days.

Ted does the touching-his-chin-and-looking-freaked-out thing again.

"Something wrong?" I ask.

He does a huffy little half-laugh. "I usually have a beard, but my stylist didn't like it."

I glance down at my leggings with a sigh. Closer to tights, but I'd rather not confront that reality. "Yeah, they're stubborn, aren't they?"

"They don't mean any harm, I guess."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"So."

"So," Ted agrees. "Look, I'll cut to the chase here. You seem like you could watch my back in a fight and not stab me in it. I can do the same for you. Interested in allying?"

"Yeah," I say immediately. Ted is pretty much exactly what my mentor told me to find, a guy who won't slow me down and can give me some safety to sleep. He doesn't strike me as the type who'll take his moral code to the grave, but I don't think he'd kill me just for kicks, either. He's pragmatic. I'll have to worry about him eventually, but I'll deal with that when it happens.

"Well… good. Let's talk during training and work out a strategy."

"Sounds good. What about, uh…?" I trail off awkwardly, half-gesturing at Reyna, who's been watching the whole conversation like a hawk. She's one of those girls who's just tall and muscular enough to make me wonder if she could actually hurt me, and the look on her face says _yes, jackass, I can._

"No," she says.

"Okay."

"See you tomorrow, then?" Ted says.

"See you."

I keep walking down the chariot line, making it to District Eight before I remember that I'm from Seven and seven comes after six. Right.

Kaya's still not there. I wish she were. We're a little awkward with each other, but we're getting better, and it'd be nice to have someone to talk to. I never know what to do with myself when I'm alone in public. Usually I'd text someone, or pretend to text someone, or play some stupid game, but they took all the contents of my pockets after the Reaping, including my phone. All I've got left is my token, a string bracelet my little sister made me for my first Reaping. It was supposed to be for good luck. Well, it's a nice thought, and it did come painfully close to letting me age out to safety.

Then again, as much as it sucks to get Reaped with the end in sight, better now than six years ago. Careers aside, I've got to be one of the stronger tributes, and certainly among the fastest. The Ten and Twelve boys could snap me in half, but they'd never catch me. I feel bad for people like the stocky thirteen-year-old girl from Eight. What chance does she have against… well… me? It's not fair.

I resolve that, no matter what, I'm not killing her. Nor the fourteen-year-old dude from Eleven, or the slightly older girl from Nine. No one who just looks like a little kid to me. I don't want to die, but I _really _don't want to do that. Better dead than a monster.


	13. Chariots: Ravy

**Last chariot: here comes Mr. Exposition! Sorry this is not the most exciting thing in the world, but I think the story is more fun if you have at least a vague idea of who's who. Also thank you so much to people who've been reviewing! The story's already written, of course, but it's nice to know I'm not just yelling into the void by reposting it lol.**

**Ravy Calgary, District Twelve, 18**

I don't know whether it's the fact that I'm quiet, or that I work in the mines, or that I'm six foot three and almost always the biggest guy in the room, but people have a habit of assigning a personality to me. First I'm scary. Once they realize I'm not going to push them around, I'm the dumb, gentle giant.

It doesn't bother me. It's kind of funny. And it means that despite being physically big, I always find myself as the fly on the wall, picking up on all kinds of things people assume I'll miss.

People-watching is one of my favorite things. I like to see how much I can tell about people just from watching them walk by. I do okay with the logical side—guess occupations and priorities from their clothes, that sort of thing—but I'm better with the intuitive stuff. Weird little details about people's expressions and strides and everything in between. I couldn't explain exactly what I'm seeing that tells me about them, but I'm almost always right.

It'll serve me well in the Games, I think. Everyone thinks the Hunger Games are about being the physically strongest fighter, but if that were true a Career boy should win every year, and it doesn't work that way. It's about knowing who you're up against. _Tiny girl with gun_ trumps _huge boy_ if she's out of grabbing distance.

The first person I studied, of course, was my District partner Felicity. She's young, only fourteen. Her personality reminds me of water. She's wishy-washy and non-confrontational, but that's because she hasn't come into her own yet. There's nothing she's passionate about and she hasn't had that mid-to-late teenage epiphany of _damn it, I'm here, I've got every right to be here, I'm as important as anyone, I'll fight for respect if you make me. _She makes me think of pale blue. When someone tries to kill her, she'll either stand there and let them or snap and fight like a rabid animal.

It's a long walk to my chariot and I'm one of the last ones out. I take full advantage of it, trying to get a read on anything other people might not notice. The One girl immediately strikes me as an anomaly. She's not sure how to feel about her clothes. She's happy, but uncomfortable, like she's worried other people will have some kind of problem with how she's dressed. It's risqué, but District One usually is, so…?

Hmm. She's had a _lot _of plastic surgery done. She's almost six feet tall. She mutters something to her District partner, and I can't hear exactly what she's saying, but something in her voice confirms my suspicions: she's trans. Not the most useful information, but it's something.

The One boy, as far as I can see, is par for the Career course: physically powerful, arrogant, but charismatic; not a genius, but not an idiot either. The Two boy is equally big and strong, but the air he casts is more calm and solid. He glances up like he senses my attention on him. We regard each other for a second, not exactly hostile, but not friendly either, more of a mutual acceptance that we're sizing each other up for a potential fight to the death. Nothing personal. The Two girl is watching me too, but there's a smug challenge in her expression. She's reading me and I think she's getting something, but she's naive, sort of. Beautiful, but in a glossy, uninteresting sort of way. She's dangerous, but she doesn't see things clearly.

I break her gaze and keep walking. The Threes are shoulder-to-shoulder, talking under their breath. The boy's attention is one hundred percent on the girl. I can tell at a glance that his pulse is going a million miles an hour just because their arms are touching. They both could've stepped out of a cyberpunk movie, him as the hair-dyed, tattooed street punk, her the android queen. The girl is listening to him, but keeping an eye on things, too. She catches my eye within a second of me looking at them. Her expression is flat and unreadable, but she doesn't look away. There's something regal and unshakably certain about her bearing. The boy is more of a physical threat—he's got that kind of wiry, whipcord muscle that promises reflexes like a housefly—but something tells me he'll go on the offensive if and only if she tells him to.

There's a grudging respect between the Fours. They'd happily murder each other, but they enjoy each other's company. They're squabbling right now, elbowing each other out of their half of the chariot, trading colorful threats and insults. The Career pack, I think, is going to be lively this year. I wish the Two boy luck; he'll be saddled with the role of peacemaker. The Fours and the Two girl will fight, the One boy doesn't have the people skills or the inclination to handle it, and the One girl is too hesitant and used to working around other people's strong opinions. How long until he snaps, I wonder?

The Fives are a writhing nest of dysfunctionality. Not on the surface; at first glance she's stoic and vaguely irritated, he's just upset about the costume. But he's scared of her. She knows he's scared, and she's smug about it. He knows she's smug, and he's angry. She doesn't know he's angry. He hides it so well even I'm not positive about what I'm seeing, but the signs are there. Flashes of a lucid, dead seriousness when he thinks no one's looking and drops the airhead act for a second. Sidelong glances at her, like he's looking for weaknesses, or just fantasizing about murdering her. It's the scary, cold kind of anger. I make a mental note to have nothing to do with whatever's going on there.

The Six and Seven boys are chatting, except they have to half-yell to hear each other across the Seven chariot's horses. Seven is promising Six to teach him how to juggle a soccer ball if he can find one. I think they're both pretty normal people; they'll do what they have to, but they're not out to get anyone. The Six girl is glaring at everyone in sight. She's scared. She feels obligated to hate everyone for some reason, but it's partly forced.

As I study them, the Seven girl squeezes between me and a few Capitol workers, muttering an apology and not meeting my eyes. She's on the tall side, with freckles and auburn hair. Another bastion of sanity, I think, albeit one with a quick intelligence in the way she "accidentally" glances at me as she sweeps her eyes across the room. Someone who keeps her cards close. There's no malice to her, but I think she'll play the game by her own rules.

"What're you doing?"

I turn to find the Eight boy leaning against the side of his chariot, watching me with a kind of detached wariness that could tip toward hostility or trust. He's big, although not as big as me, and handsome, I suppose. Definitely intimidating at first glance, and he plays it up, but he's another one who doesn't mean anyone any real harm.

"What, me?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"I don't know. People-watching."

He smiles crookedly. "Yeah? What do you see?"

"Bunch of lunatics, mostly. Some not."

"Not yet. Give it time"

"Guess so."

He nods and doesn't seem to want to say anything else, so I keep walking. The Eight girl isn't out yet, and the Nine boy is still skittering around somewhere. The Nine girl is small, bouncing around her chariot and staring out over the crowd with her face wrinkled worriedly. She's dreading this. Se doesn't want to die, she doesn't want to kill, she doesn't want _anyone _to die. There's a bright intelligence to her, too, but it's skewed by her conviction that she can fix this somehow.

The there's the hulking beast who is the Ten boy. He's plucking at his plaid shirt, shaggy dark hair falling over his forehead, his face scrunched up somewhere between anger and bemusement. He reminds me of a wolf with its snout stuck in a jar. His partner is leaning against the side of the chariot, her weight on one leg, arms crossed, watching him with the air of someone who's not afraid but knows better than to let her guard down. Both of them are around six feet tall, although the girl is leaner, with long orange braids. She strikes me as the quintessential big sister, calm and practical, but with a bit of fire to her. Another one who's not mean, but not about to go down easily.

Same with the Eleven girl. I can't tell whether she's Hispanic or Romani or what, but her skin is olive and her hair is long and dark. She's another one who feels my gaze on her, and her eyes snap up to meet mine. She's proud, although not in the same way as the Careers. Nearly ruthless, I think. Bad things have happened to and in front of her, like the Three girl. The boy is small and elfish, standing behind her uncertainly, clearly unsure of what he's supposed to be doing. He's given up already. He's just letting himself get pushed around until something kills him.

And finally there's Felicity, blinking owlishly in our coal-black chariot. I know she didn't sleep last night; I could hear her pacing through the wall. Then again, I doubt any of us did, except maybe the Careers.

"So we just wave?" she says quietly, looking herself up and down. We are, in a shocking twist of fate, dressed as coal miners. It could've been worse. We could've been _sexy _coal miners. I take a moment to count my lucky stars that Felicity is only fourteen and even the Capitol doesn't usually sink that low. Usually.

"That'll work fine. Can't hurt to make eye contact if you want, but just let your eyes go out of focus if that'll make you nervous."

She nods, twisting a strand of dark blond hair around her finger. "No, that's fine. I can do that. How come, though?"

"Just, you know, personal connection. They might remember you better. Get attached."

"Apparently not attached enough to _actually _help," she says with a huffy laugh, then her eyes widen and she looks around like she's realizing what she just said.

The only person paying attention is an Avox combing our horses' manes. She gives us a _don't worry about it _look.

"Oops," Felicity mutters. "Sorry."

I'm not sure why she's apologizing to me. I think it's just a thing she does. Default to mollifying people. "No big deal. I don't blame you."

She sighs and doesn't answer me.

A piercing tone comes over the loudspeaker. The Avoxes and Capitol staff scatter. I guess this is it. There's a nerve-wracking pause, and the doors open.

All I can think of is how many other things I'd rather be doing right now. I could be with my friends. I could be drawing. Hell, I could be in the mines; at least then I'd be making some use of myself. But no, instead I'm dressed up as an impractical, romanticized mockery of what I actually am, waving to a bunch of people I'm not sure are people. It's surreal. My motivation drops through the floor.

But if I turn them against me, I'm dead. And I'm not killing myself on the basis of a temporary existential crisis.

So I suck it up, and I smile, and I wave.


	14. Training: Amelia

**Warning: questionable humor, although if you've made it this far I think you'll be okay. Basically, whenever either of the District Fives is mentioned, it's safe to assume things are about to go south.**

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

We're led to the training gym in a shifting, shady-eyed mass. The woman escorting us holds up a hand at the door. "Before you begin training, I have a very important announcement, so listen up," she says with a too-big grin. "You won't want to miss this."

Most of the chatter stops. The Three boy doesn't seem to have heard, but his District partner elbows him and he shuts up.

"There will be no waiting period between your entrance into the Arena and the beginning of the Games. You'll be on the rising platforms as usual, but there are no mines. You may leave your platform as soon as you are able. Are there any questions?"

There are none, although there are plenty of questioning looks thrown around. I guess the obvious inquiry is _why? _But no one wants to ask; if they were willing to share, the lady would've said it already.

"Well, all right then!" she chirps. "Have fun!"

And with that, the Games truly begin. Sure, there will be no murder for a while, but alliances, grudges, and everything in between will be set in motion over the next few minutes.

The Four girl, Amaris, makes a beeline for the swords, and the first round of the inevitable power struggle begins. Ash and I glance at each other. The Four boy, Woohyun, takes a few steps toward the opposite side of the gym, but then seems to remember that his position among the Careers is shaky at best and scrambles after Amaris.

I can tell from the Two girl's face that she's made up her mind to be difficult. But before she can make things awkward, her partner catches my eye, then gestures to the sword station, giving me a polite _shall we? _look. I give him a _we shall _nod. Four out of six, and I don't think Ash is one to pick a fight anyway; he tags along with the Two boy and I. The Two girl scowls, but goes along with it.

Lovely. The gang's all here. And I can already see the tension points; Amaris and the Two girl whose name I can't remember are fixing each other with spectacularly fake smiles, and the Four guy just radiates a bad attitude.

"Well… hi," I say, more to break the tense silence than anything else. "I'm Amelia. I don't remember all of your names, sorry."

The redheaded Two girl looks me up and down. "Were you always Amelia?"

I roll my eyes inwardly, but it bounces right off at this point. "Nope. Were you always nosy?"

The Two boy laughs and steps between us smoothly before his partner can reply. "Hey, I'm Jaiven. Nice to meet you."

The girl leans around him and fixes me with another unfriendly smile. "Merona."

"I'm Ash."

"Amaris."

Everyone turns to the Four boy, who's poking at a sword on a rack, his face scrunched up dubiously. He's attractive, in a slim, pointy sort of way. Despite his apparent fragility, there's something intimidating about him. Maybe just the height, but I'm not writing off anyone who volunteered from District Four.

"I'm Woohyun," he says with a slight smile. "Hello."

There's a pause while everyone waits to see if anyone else will tell him to fuck off. No one does. Guess he's with us, then.

"Any brilliant strategic ideas, or are we going standard?" Jaiven asks. "You know, take over the Cornucopia, hunt people until final eight, then whoever's left starts trying to kill each other?"

"Works for me," Amaris shrugs.

"Sure."

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"Great."

Well, this is going beautifully, I can't help thinking. I wonder how long it'll last.

"I changed my mind," Amaris declares. "About this station, I mean. We shouldn't be messing around with swords; we all know how to use them. Except Woohyun."

He shrugs. "I might."

"But you don't."

"How do you know?"

"Because I would know if you did, ugh."

"Maybe I trained in secret."

"But you _didn't," _Amaris says, a bit manically, her face an inch from his.

"How about this," Jaiven suggests. "Woohyun picks a weapon and learns it. Works on it all three days. He won't have to worry about supplies since he's with us, so no fussing with survival skills; he can get more weapon training in than the other tributes. Everyone else, go learn something you don't already know."

"Don't tell me what to do," Amaris grumbles.

"Or don't. Do whatever. Just a suggestion."

She brightens right up. "No, I like it. Let's split up, gang."

Ash winces. "Don't say that once we're in the Arena; that's asking for trouble."

"Whatever." She stomps off toward the camouflage booth. I have no idea what a Career would need with camouflage, unless things go disastrously wrong, but that's her business.

Woohyun picks up a huge sword, almost drops it on his foot, and trades it for a lighter one. Ash shoots me a _what-the-fuck-is-any-of-this-even _look and wanders off to terrorize a few girls at the plant identification booth. Merona gives me one last glare and flounces off as well. Her victim of choice appears to be the tiny Nine girl.

"Hmm," Jaiven says, more to himself than me. "See, when I said 'learn something', what I meant was 'pick one of the offered skills, and learn it.' Guess that's not how it came across."

"It's not a bad strategy," I point out as we stroll aimlessly to the electronics booth. "Ruining training for everyone else, I mean."

"True."

The booth is empty except for the big Twelve boy, who's cursing softly to himself as he repeatedly burns himself with a soldering iron. He couldn't possibly be anything but a miner. I guess hands used to sledgehammers don't easily manipulate tiny circuit components. He glances up warily when we arrive, but when it becomes apparent that we're not going to bother him, he returns to what he's doing.

Jaiven flips through the project book. "Damn, this is pretty diverse."

"What's in there?"

"Stuff you'd expect—you know, bombs and so on—but then there's pumps, Geiger counters, toasters… Why the _hell _would you build a toaster in the middle of the Arena?"

"Well, maybe you've got a loaf of bread and some time to kill."

"I guess so. Want to learn to make a toaster?"

"Think I'll pass. What's the next booth?"

First aid, as it turns out. There are little booklets scattered all over the place, for everything from infection to radiation sickness. "What about this?" I ask.

"I did some training with first aid. Dunno how much more I can learn in three days. You?"

"I might come back to it, but let's take a look at everything first."

I like the easy camaraderie we've fallen into. Nothing flirtatious, but that's fine. I could use a friend. Of course I know it can't last, but I think his easygoing, peacekeeping nature is genuine. I can trust him for now.

The next booth is general disaster scenarios. Fire, floods, nuclear accidents, all of that.

Jaiven frowns. "What are the odds of a nuclear disaster in the Arena? Has that ever happened?"

"No, but between this, the radiation sickness first aid, and the Geiger counter we theoretically know how to build, we'll be prepared if it does."

His eyes narrow. "But if it's never happened before… _Has _it ever happened before?"

"Not as far as I know."

"And I've never heard this stuff mentioned as part of training. I thought I knew everything available here."

"Same. So it's new."

"So it's probably here for a reason," he concludes.

We consider that for a moment. "Oh, shit," we say in unison.

"Goddamn," he mutters. "That is _all_ kinds of not what I signed up for."

Now that he mentions it, same here. I hate burns. Hate, hate, hate them. I don't know much about radiation, but if the sun can fry my skin from a zillion miles away, I don't want to come face-to-face with anything along the same lines.

"Guess we better get the rest together and share the good news," he sighs.

"Guess so."

It's a bit contentious, particularly in Amaris's case, but we manage to herd the pack back over the the sword station. Woohyun has improved noticeably in the few minutes we've been gone, I note.

"Now what?" Merona yawns.

Jaiven glances at me to do the honors. Fine. "Did you guys notice a lot of stuff related to radioactivity, just sort of mixed in at the survival booths?"

For a second I think she'll make some kind of smart-ass comment, but she looks serious. "Now that you mention it? Yeah. Fallout ash at the camouflage station."

"The plant station had how to recognize contaminated plants," Ash says.

Merona sighs. "Oh, ew. They'd better fix my DNA after I win."

Amaris pats her shoulder comfortingly. "I'm sure they would _if _you won, but you don't have to worry about that."

"Don't touch me."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Don't tell _me _what to do."

"Oh my God, shut up. Ugh."

"So!" Jaiven interrupts. "Any bright ideas? What do we do about it?"

"Kill everybody really fast?" Ash suggests.

"That's… not bad, actually. What's Plan B?"

I glance around for Capitol attendants before gesturing everyone in closer. "Okay, so my mentor got me the booklet with all the tribute bios."

Ash scowls. "Mine didn't. Don't they share? We're from the same damn District."

"I don't think so. They usually bet against each other."

"Oh, wow, nice."

"Anyway," Jaiven prompts.

"Yeah. Anyway," I go on. "The Five boy has been trained in nuclear science for at least five years. Works at a reactor. Specializes in major weapons. He knows more than any of us are going to learn in the next three days."

"Let's get him," Amaris declares.

Woohyun groans. "Do we have to?"

"What's wrong, Asian Ken, can't handle a little competition?"

"Don't _call _me that, princess!"

"I'll call you whatever the fuck I want. Maybe you should learn to fight and _then _complain. Bitch."

"Maybe I will."

I wave my hand between their faces to get their attention back. "Hey. So. Wonderful and brilliant though we are, we won't be the only ones to figure this out. Everyone's going to try to get him in their alliance. If we want him, we should get him now."

"She's right. So _do _we want him?" Jaiven asks.

Amaris snorts. "I think everyone wants him, darling. If you know what I mean."

"I… what?" Jaiven says weakly. "Okay. Yeah. So. Any objections to bringing him in? No? Cool."

He strides off in the direction of the archery station. The five of us troop after him. It occurs to me that maybe we should've let Jaiven go alone, because the poor boy will probably have a heart attack when he turns around to find the whole Career pack looming over him, but it's too late now.

Even though we've got to be pushing twelve hundred pounds of human between us, we manage to creep right up behind him thanks to our training. Woohyun is either naturally sneaky or not quite as inexperienced as he claims. We watch silently as the boy draws the bowstring back. His draw isn't the best, but still solid for someone as lightly-built as him. The arrow thuds into the target halfway between the bullseye and the edge. Not bad. I still doubt he's physically _formidable_, but he's got at least some strength and coordination.

"This your first time doing archery?" Jaiven asks.

The boy jumps and whirls around, clutching his chest theatrically. He's… really something. There's a look in his green eyes that conjures the oddly specific image of him getting high, attempting dark magic, and succeeding. His features are so nice it nearly puts him in the uncanny valley.

"Can I help you?" he says slowly. Oh, perfect, he's deliberately making his voice throatier and lower than it really is. But he's pretty good at it. This is going to be an absolute mess.

"I think so. You're the Nuke kid?"

Jaiven, I notice, has switched to a far harsher persona than he used with me. Some kind of deliberate strategy, or a defense mechanism against the pretty boy's prettiness, I wonder?

"I am indeed. My name is Ariel." He offers a hand.

Jaiven shakes it. I think he could shatter Ariel's bones if he tightened his grip. "I'm Jaiven. This is Amelia, Merona, Amaris, Ash, and Woohyun. Want to join our alliance?"

"Oh, that is tempting," Ariel says innocently. "But I have to ask what it is that you want with me."

"I think you know."

Ariel blinks. "Do I?"

"I mean… I…" Jaiven takes a deep breath, rubbing his temples. "Look, we think you could help us navigate the Arena. In exchange, no one, ourselves included, will kill you until the final eight."

"You can promise that?"

Jaiven shrugs, gesturing at the four-and-a-bit Careers over his shoulder. "Of course not, but we can promise the best odds you're likely to get."

Ariel looks us over. Slowly and extensively. Within a few seconds, Ash is indignant, Amaris is smirking, Merona is scowling, and I don't know _what's _going through Woohyun's head, nor do I want to, judging by his leer. Soon enough I'm the one being checked out. I don't think I'm imagining that his eyes stay on me just a bit longer than the rest. But for all I know, it's because he's wondering what's wrong with my hips. Not to mention that, judging from the minute and a half I've known him, he's quite happy to use his looks as leverage and to fuck with people at every opportunity. Even if he _does _act interested in me, I make a mental note not to buy it for a second.

"I think you're right," Ariel decides. He licks his lips and I sigh internally at the fact that I notice. He knows exactly what he's doing. "Yes, I'll join. So. Now what? Who's on top around here, anyway?"

"Okay, rule number one," Jaiven mutters. "Knock it off with… that."

"Hmm? What did I…? _Oh, _I get it, you thought I meant…" Ariel trails off with a laugh. "Gracious, your mind is filthy. You should be ashamed of yourself."

Jaiven and Ash exchange alarmed glances, like they're wondering if they just made a terrible mistake. I, for one, am quite entertained.

"Any more rules I should know about?" Ariel asks. "I admit I'm not usually one to do what I'm told, but for _you–"_

"Alright," Jaiven declares, cutting him off. "I'll be at the swords. No, the… the plants. Bye."

He double-times it across the gym. Ash takes off after him.

Ariel smiles like a cat with a bird. "Sorry. Couldn't help it. Aren't straight guys fun? I like ours already."

"They're gonna stab you if you keep that up," Amaris points out.

"Oh, they would never," he says airily. "Far too Freudian. They can't strangle me, either. I guess they could use poison when the time comes, but that's so… feminine-coded."

"What the fuck," Merona mutters, but I can't bite back a snicker. Against my much, much, _much _better judgment, I honestly like this guy. Or at least get a kick out of him. For now.

**I dunno either, man.**


	15. Training: Merona

**Merona Styx, District Two, 18**

I'm not sure what I expected to happen. This is not it.

Jaiven and Ash are beating each other up at the martial arts station. Still trying to recover from Ariel, I guess. Woohyun returned to the swords. Though some sequence of events I can't quite figure out, the creepy little devil boy—which is to say, Ariel—managed to hustle Amaris and I away from the archery area, isolating Amelia there with him. In theory Amelia should still be decidedly in charge of the situation; she's got a better claim to the alliance and is fair bit bigger than him and lethally trained. In practice… I guess we'll find out.

Whatever. Not my problem. As long as someone wrangles him well enough to maximize the useful information and minimize that… _thing _he does, and that someone is not me, I really don't care.

The problem is that I'm left walking aimlessly across the gym with Amaris. She doesn't look happy about it either.

"We could split up," she suggests in the most civil tone I've heard from her all day.

"Yeah, we sure could."

"Hmm. I don't know, though."

I raise an eyebrow. "Come on, you had a good idea. Bask in the moment. Don't ruin it."

"Hear me out. Don't you think we should at least _try _to get along? Whether we like it or not, we're more dangerous between the two of us if we cooperate. And fuck you."

I consider that. "That makes sense, actually. Fuck you too."

She nods decisively. "Good. I mean, we might as well not dance around the fact that we'd totally stab each other in the face, right?"

"Right."

"But I don't like how buddy-buddy Jaiven and Amelia were getting there."

"Me either," I agree. "And now Jaiven and Ash are having Threatened Straight Boy Group Therapy over there, and who even knows what's going on at the archery station. Point is, we oughta stick together."

Amaris follows my gaze to the archery booth, where Amelia is correcting Ariel's grip on the bowstring. Somehow this necessitates him being pressed against her from head to toe. Amaris shakes her head in entertained resignation. "Goddamn, he's _carnivorous."_

Amelia, to her credit, is visibly suspicious with the whole affair. Not angry, but definitely taking his antics with an ocean's worth of salt. Good. Hopefully she'll figure out how to deal with him so the rest of us don't have to.

But there's something even more interesting: we're not the only ones watching. The short-haired Five girl is doing some kind of yoga-y thing on the combat mat, ducking every so often to avoid flying limbs of the Career boys. She's looking past the archery station, but something tells me her attention is on it. There's the slightest bit of a frown on her face that could be anything from real anger to a touch of indigestion. Is she worried about a huge, powerful alliance forming? Pissed that she doesn't get the benefit of her District partner's knowledge? Or is she just jealous, like the rest of Panem, apparently?

Ariel doesn't do it for me personally—actually, _no _one does it for me; I'm just not wired that way—but apparently he does for everyone who's even slightly into guys. I'll have to take that into account. Attraction makes people behave in weird ways, and apparently Ariel can play it like a violin. I predict that bringing him into our alliance will be a disastrous decision overall, but a good one for me personally. He's destructive and chaotic and I'm immune. His presence gives me an advantage. But at what cost?

Amaris looks over my shoulder. "Huh."

"What?"

"Crazy kid's not crazy anymore."

"Which crazy kid? There are, like… a lot," I yawn, turning to see who she's talking about. "Oh, the _crazy _crazy one."

Nine boy, that is. But he does indeed seem to have calmed down. He's sitting peacefully at the trap and snare table, tinkering with a tangle of string.

I narrow my eyes. "Still don't like him. Let's get him at the Bloodbath."

"Yeah, not really feeling that sharing-an-arena-with-him thing either."

"That's settled then. Hey, you know what we oughta do?"

"What?"

"Learn at least _some _of that nuclear stuff. I don't want Slutty McEyelashes over there to be the only thing standing between me and radiation poisoning, you know? What are we supposed to do if someone stabs him at the Bloodbath or whatever? Plus I don't trust him as far as I can throw him."

Amaris glances between me and Ariel. "I think you could throw him pretty far."

"Aw, thanks."

"Welcome. But yeah, good idea."

We jog over to the First Aid table. Someone's already there, the Ten girl. Amaris and I exchange glances and silently sit on either side of her.

Disappointingly, she doesn't react other than a raised eyebrow. "Hey," she says, winding a bandage around a fake wrist.

"Hi," I smile back at her, plucking it from her hands and yanking on the end of the bandage. The fake hand does a few barrel rolls and thuds onto the table.

The girl laughs, a real laugh from her belly. "I'm Lillen. Who're you?"

I scowl inwardly. Just steal all my thunder, why don't you. Fucking rude.

"Merona Styx," I say nicely, leaning way into her personal space. "I'm using this station now."

"You do whatever you want, sugar. Doesn't bother me."

"You're in the way, though," Amaris says from over Lillen's shoulder.

"Is that so? Well, I'm sure a pair of smart Careers can manage to work around big ol' me."

"We could," Amaris hisses. "But we don't _want _to. So move."

Finally Lillen stops looking so irritatingly cheerful, but now her expression is thoughtful. "You know," she says. "I'm no Career like you. But I'm eighteen, and I'm not gonna kill any little kids. I can't win, really."

Amaris groans. "Oh my God. No philosophizing. Just scram, would you?"

"Well, I'm getting there, sweetheart. That's the thing. I'm not spending my last few days on this green earth kowtowing to the likes of you. So I guess what I'm saying is–" She stands up. She's at least six feet tall, muscular, and the look on her face leaves no doubt that she's well and truly sick of us. "–No."

I burst out laughing. Amaris grabs Lillen around the neck, kicks her knees out from under her, and throws her down on her face. Lillen's size is all well and good, but it's not much against a decade of training.

Lillen clambers to her feet calmly. Of course, ten Capitol attendants rush over before Amaris and I can hit her again. They don't say anything, but the message is clear: no more fighting. Whatever. We've made our point. We walk away laughing and don't look back.

I just love being lethal. Morality is for people who need it to protect them from their betters. They can prattle on and on about doing unto others and all that, write laws until they're blue in the face, but when all is said and done I can kick the door in and break their neck and there's not a thing they can do about it. There's only one real source of power, and I have it.

"You know what?" I say. "Forget survival skills. Let's do knives."

"Works for me."

I think Amaris is thinking along the same lines as me, exhilarated by the realization of how much stronger we are than the other tributes, but riding that train of thought to its logical conclusion: there are five very, very dangerous Careers, and only one can survive. Learning each other's strengths and weaknesses is the most important goal of training.

Amaris goes straight for a pair of slim daggers and proceeds to terrorize the attendant with them. She's better than I'd be, but I also get the sense that they're one of her favorite weapons. I'm a jack of all trades myself. From a mace to my bare hands, you name it, I'll kill someone with it.

I glance over to see what the boys are doing. Ash is whaling on a punching bag and Jaiven has wandered back to the archery station with Amelia and Ariel, which I don't like at all. The Five girl is still on the mat, but she's watching a group of girls at the disaster station now, and I get the feeling she's memorizing everything.

Which I should be doing as well, actually. I squint at the three girls, trying to remember their names and Districts. Felicity from Twelve, Castalia from Nine, and Desdemona from Eight, I think. The young tributes. All four in that middle category of people I'm not particularly worried about but wouldn't turn my back on, either.

I choose a knife of my own, a single straight-edged dagger. My fingers curl around the new leather handle comfortably. It's so familiar. I wonder what it'll feel like to kill someone. We practice stabbing pigs to get used to the shock of how flesh feels when you drive a knife into it, but it's not the _same. _There's no rush.

The practice blades are blunted and and the Capitol dude is wearing protective gear, but I can tell it still hurts when I drive the knife into his gut as hard as I can. And he's supposed to be one of the best knife fighters the Capitol has? He's pathetic. I guess it's hard to take your training seriously when you know there's no chance you'll ever need it. It does strike me as a bad political decision, though, incentivizing the people you're trying to control to make themselves as deadly as possible.

Except they don't really have to control District Two, I guess. We're happy. There are the obligatory few bleeding-hearts whining about how mistreated the outer Districts are, but no one listens to them, and they usually disappear. Good riddance.

The Six girl stomps over to our station. She picks up a knife at random, sticks out her jaw belligerently, and stabs a dummy in the chest. Does she not know ribs are a thing?

She pulls the knife out and takes a step back, studying the mannequin. She brushes her finger over what I recognize as the major veins and arteries, thinks for a moment, and rams the knife in again. Nowhere near any of the blood vessels she obviously knows about. So why…?

She smirks and stabs the dummy again, then again, both of the wounds deliberately nonlethal.

Ohhhh, I get it. She's part of the Crazy Bastard Club.

"You really think that'll help?" I say from over her shoulder.

She jumps and spins to face me. "Yeah, actually." Her expression is openly hostile, feline brown eyes narrowed. She's almost as big as the Ten girl. "Everyone knows something useful."

"What's your name again?"

"None of your business."

I roll my eyes. "Answer the damn question before I do to you what you did to that dummy."

"You can't kill me. We're in training."

"I can give you a rain check."

She huffs. "Whatever. I'm Reyna."

"What're you so mad about?"

"You're a criminal," she spits.

I blink. "You think so?" Funny thing is, I actually _haven't _killed anyone. Yet. As much as I might've been tempted sometimes.

"You trained. You're not allowed to train."

I shrug. "Yeah, see, I think that's one of those rules that's more like a guideline, you know?"

"It's not a guideline, it's a _law," _she lectures, teeth gritted and eyes wide.

"Wow," I say, a bit nonplussed. "This is really important to you, huh?"

"Of course it's important! It's the _most _important thing!"

"Okay," I say slowly. "Well. You keep your knives to yourself until we kill you, yeah?"

"Uh… no?"

I smile and pat her shoulder. "Whatever, you crazy bitch. Enjoy your stabbing."

I walk away as she splutters. Amaris is cheerfully decimating a whole gang of attendants in the far corner of the station. I gesture a few over to me. How many will it take, I wonder, to keep me from getting bored?

Honestly. This is such a waste of time. The Games can't start soon enough.


	16. Training: Ted

**Ted Walsh, District Six, 17**

It's not as bad as it could be. Which isn't saying a lot, given that this is, after all, the Hunger Games. But I'll take what I can get.

I'm happy with my choice of Jukai as an ally. He's easy to get along with, seems honest, and is more useful than I think he realizes. He knows his way around the woods. He can climb like a spooked squirrel and he turns out to have a knack for archery. I make a point of holding him at a safe psychological distance, but he's growing on me.

He's a bit of a dipshit. He's a year older than me, but it doesn't feel that way. Well, whatever. Thankfully he's not one of those unfortunate people who are wrong _and _stubborn, so we'll be just fine.

"So," he says as we walk into the gym for day two of training. "You gonna run all day again?"

That's my strategy: get in shape as much as I can in three days, then run like hell once I'm in the Arena. Jukai agrees that it's a good one. At first I tried to get him to run with me, but after the first few miles didn't even leave him winded, I realized him keeping up with me won't be a problem.

"Probably an hour now, an hour later," I reply. "What about you?"

"Guess I should try to figure out some kind of weapon," he says unhappily. "Kinda rather not, but, y'know. Hunger Games."

"Yeah. Sword, maybe? Looks like most of the Careers left." The sword station is indeed deserted except the Four dude, who I'm pretty sure Jukai can handle.

"Sure, why not?"

He strolls off to the swords. I do my running. As usual, I'm the only one at the station. Nice thing is, the treadmills look out over the rest of the gym, so I can see what everyone else is doing. Aside from Jukai and I, I see three alliances forming. There's the Careers, plus their growing crew of male models. I sort of get how the Four guy got in, but why Five? I make a mental note that something weird is going on there. There's a group I mentally dub the Youngbloods: the Eight, Nine, and Twelve girls, three of the four youngest tributes. As I watch, they troop off after the Eleven boy to complete their quartet.

The last alliance is the most worrying, simply because I don't know what to make of it. The pale, skinny Five girl finally does something other than stretch and stare at people. All at once, she rises to her feet like a rope is dragging her up, lopes over to the plant station, and taps the auburn-haired Seven girl on the shoulder. Jukai told me her name. Kaya, that's it.

Kaya looks uncertain at first, but they talk for a while and she starts nodding. She points at the Three girl. Now it's the Five girl's turn to hesitate, but she seems to agree eventually and they go over to talk to the Threes. I can't hear what's going on, but there seems to be some controversy about the Three boy. At last they split up again. I can't tell whether they reached a consensus or not.

Finally I'm done running. I should try to learn a weapon, too, but now I'm exhausted. Maybe I'll try something I'm actually good at, just to give my ego a bump.

There's a weird little station for figuring out and memorizing maps. The attendant will give you a few routes or pictures or whatever, and you piece together as much as you can about the place. It's always been a talent of mine, visualizing things and fitting them together, and I'm proven right at the booth. Almost disappointingly so, actually; I get through everything they've got in half an hour and it's probably a waste of time.

But my legs aren't shaking anymore, so that's good. Weapon time. I'm not sure what I should try; the closest I've come to wielding a weapon is cutting up my dinner with a steak knife, or maybe the power tools at work. But in both cases the idea is to _not _kill anyone, so it's not much to go on.

So what should I learn? I'm decently strong, I guess. Not remarkably agile or anything like that. And there are almost always swords in the Arena, plus Jukai's still over there, so… sure, why not?

I take a second to see how he's doing before jumping in myself. He's not bad. It's apparent that even from the few hours of practice, he's developed a feel for the blade. But his movements are still the mechanical, deliberate ones of someone to whom this doesn't come naturally. All of his athleticism is in his lower body, I think, plus he's just not a vicious person. There's no intent to harm in the way he swings the sword and I'm not confident there will be when this is real.

We nod at each other and he continues slashing at a dummy. I look around for an attendant. One pops up immediately and soon I'm slicing up a mannequin of my own under her guidance, trying not to think about how the point of all this is killing a real, live person. I'll do it if I have to. But I really don't _want _to. Honestly, I just want to go home and do my damn job and live in a world where this kind of crazy bullshit doesn't happen. But here I am, swinging an ancient, obsolete weapon in a room full of teenagers who are almost all dead people walking, for the sake of… order? Unity?

But that's the dumbest PR move I've ever heard. _Gee, how should we keep these people quiet? I know, let's drag off and horribly kill some of their children every year, and make it as big a spectacle as we possibly can! Perfect! Surely this will stave off any resentment of our leadership._

It's stupid. _Too _stupid, I muse as I slash the dummy's arm off. It's Peacekeepers that keep the Districts under control, not the Games. Which means the Games are for the Capitol. Keeping them entertained, and maybe a little bit scared of their government. They know damn well that they're antagonizing the Districts, but they don't care, because there's nothing we can do about it.

Which means ending the Games wouldn't take a full-scale revolution, I realize. Just a shift in the power balance, so that we become a bigger threat than the Capitol citizens.

Now, if only I had the slightest clue how that might happen, and the ability to do something about it, and the personality as well, because honestly, I don't lead revolutions. I install doors onto cars. Armed revolt? Not my division. Besides, I've got a family; I don't like to think about what would happen to them if I tried anything. Peacekeepers kicking down the door of my house, grabbing my sister–

"Perfect," the attendant grins, and I realize I almost stabbed the dummy clean through the chest.

There's something I'm not sure the Capitol realizes. As it keeps sucking the Districts dry, the poor are getting poorer, more hopeless and desperate. Soon they'll have nothing to lose. I won't act, because they can hurt me. But the people with no family, no past, no future… I think the Capitol should be very scared of them.


	17. Training: Kaya

**Kaya Redfell, District Seven, 18**

I think I'm in the majority here in two significant ways: I really, really don't want to be here, but now that I am, I have no intention of dying. Of course I don't want to hurt anyone. But twenty-three people are going to die no matter what I do, and I don't see why I owe it to anyone to be one of them.

I know I'm not a favorite, but I also know my chances are much better than zero. I can run. I can climb. I can survive in the woods. I can do whatever it takes, within reason.

I bank on the Arena being either something indoors or woods I'll be able to feed myself in. I've noticed during the _Games Over the Years_ specials the Capitol loves to run that the Arenas have been getting easier—fewer tributes starving to death, dying of exposure, that kind of thing. Boring, I guess. So odds are the survival skills I already have will be more than enough.

I spend most of the first day throwing axes at things. I'm giving away one of my strengths, but it's not like a District Seven tribute coming at someone with an axe is going to take anyone by surprise. Hell, it's probably more of a shock that Jukai _can't _use one, as he confessed on the train. He worked with the drag ropes back home, and as a result is probably the one person who could catch me in a tree. I don't _think _he'd kill me, or at least not unless we were the final two, but who knows? He's a nice guy, but this is the Hunger Games.

The other tributes leave me alone and I make no move to talk to any of them as they come and go. It's not that I mind people. Just that making new friends isn't exactly a specialty of mine, and I'm perfectly content with my own company. I've almost got a Zen thing going on, throw after throw after throw hitting the target. Anyway, what am I supposed to do, chat in between throws? _Hi, how are you? _Thud. _Great to meet you. _Crack. Harder than I can usually throw. I'm angry, I guess, at this whole stupid thing. I don't deserve to die and neither do most of the other people here.

A few hours into the second day I decide to stop at the plant identification booth after all, half to see if there's anything worth learning and half to see whether they've actually gotten it right. They have. Damn. I'm not usually the type to revel in schadenfreude, but I wouldn't mind seeing the Capitol mess something up.

Someone taps my shoulder. I turn to find the District Five girl's hooded gray-blue eyes regarding me. She's about my height, on the tall side, but unnervingly skinny. Actually, she's just unnerving in general. There's something old about her. Not just that she looks like she's in her twenties, although that's true too; more like she stepped here from an era when pictures were still black and white and people with tuberculosis were sent away to die in huge Gothic buildings.

She smiles without opening her mouth. It doesn't make me feel better.

"Hi," she says, her voice soft and low-pitched.

"Er… hello."

"I'm Luther Constantine. District Five."

"Kaya Redfell, Seven."

"Do you mind if I join you here?"

"Go ahead," I say, of course, hoping my true feelings on the matter aren't showing on my face.

She glides onto the stool next to me. Her style of movement reminds me of a spider. Is there _anything _cheerful and non-creepy about this girl?

"I really am sorry if I'm bothering you," she says after a moment. "To be honest, I'm probably one of the most introverted people here. It's better to just tell me outright if I'm doing something wrong, because I won't pick up on it otherwise."

"I understand," I shrug. "I'm pretty quiet too at first."

She smiles again. "I noticed that. It's why I thought I'd come talk to you. Counterintuitive, I realize, but… well, you seemed like you might not give me a headache."

I'm not sure if she means it literally. I think she might. Now that I'm looking, there are shadows under her eyes, and she looks exhausted and a little sick, like all the light and noise really is bothering her.

I smile back at her. It's small, but not forced. "I'll do my best. Do you know any of these plants?"

"Not a bit. Five is mostly cities, and then there was… No, I'm not good with survival skills at all."

"I can probably show you."

"Could you? I could memorize the book, but theory and practice rarely align so nicely. I might be able to teach you some tricks in return."

My interest is piqued despite myself. "What tricks? And could you really memorize the book?"

"Blind memorization happens to be a skill of mine," she says drily. "I never expected it to be so practical, though it does serve me well in academics."

I sigh. "Must be nice."

"Not the scholarly type?"

"Not really." I could go on, but spilling my life story and strengths and weaknesses two minutes into a conversation isn't really my style.

"Hmm. We might… complement each other, then. I promise I'm not calling you stupid, just that your practical knowledge seems far greater than mine, but I'm sure my skills can be applied somewhere."

"What, you mean you want to ally?"

She glances up from the plant book to look me in the eye. "I think we should at least consider it," she shrugs.

I have to make myself consider it rationally instead of giving in to the instinct telling me to scream _Look! A distraction! _and run away while her back is turned. Between the heavy eyelids, bruise-like shadows underneath, and how her pupils contract in the light, her eyes are just so _creepy._

But she seems perfectly nice. Definitely intelligent. Almost self-deprecating, like on some level she knows she freaks people out and is trying to get past that. And she seems so underfed, her short hair choppy like it was cut with a knife, even her lips so pale they're almost white. The part of me that doesn't want to run away wants to make her a mug of tea and wrap her in a blanket.

"… Um," I say. "Well… sorry for how cold this sounds, but I've got to ask. What skills of yours do you think you could apply? And you never said what tricks you could teach me."

She tilts her head, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "Hmm. I'm quite good with anything mechanical. I can build traps or defuse them. My memory is good, so I can always tell you who's left, where they're from, how they prefer to fight, what alliance they were with last, and so on. If nothing else, I can make sure no one kills you in your sleep. And I don't eat much," she finishes with a half-smile.

"Can you fight?"

Luther looks down at her skinny wrists ruefully. "I can certainly try, but… I don't know, can you?"

"I'm no match for the Careers, but I could hold my own against most of the rest, I think. At least if I had an axe to throw."

She nods. "I see. I wish I could pull my weight physically, but… Ah well. As I said, there are other assets I can offer. Some of my best are hard to describe, though."

"Huh?"

"For example, the Arena is going to be radioactive. And either the starting area is _extremely _radioactive, or there's some other serious, immediate hazard there."

I blink. "How in hell…?"

"There's something about nuclear science at almost every station. Just subtle enough that some of us are guaranteed to notice, but not all. And I'm not the only one who thinks so; the Careers do too."

"How do you know _that?"_

"They looked at the stations, conferenced, and went straight for Ariel. My District partner, that is. He worked at a reactor."

I can't help noticing that she talks about her own life in present tense, but his in past. Like he's already dead. And that she glances at him as she says his name, right as he happens to be looking back. His eyes widen and I can tell from across the room that his heart skips a beat. He skitters out of sight behind the One girl.

Huh.

"As to the starting area," Luther goes on, "I'm inferring that from the lack of mines. Whoever doesn't get out of there fast is dead. And I mean _fast. _Usually they wouldn't tell us about something like that until right before we went in. Chaos and confusion, right? But because we know, everyone will be ready, the alliances will have decided on a course of action… We'd _all _be dead if they didn't tell us to scram, which they don't want."

"Oh."

Once again, logic and instinct are telling me opposite things. Clearly, Luther is useful. I would never have thought of that, but now that she says it, I think she's right. I should ally with her. But my gut says that I lost control of this situation as soon as she sat down next to me.

But I'm physically stronger. For all her wits, I can just chuck an axe at her; hell, I could probably choke her out without too much trouble. If nothing else, it makes no sense for Luther to turn on me early. I can see how she conducts herself in the Arena. If she's still creeping me out, I'll just kill her while I've got her right next to me.

It sounds so easy in my head.

"No, I uh… I mean, I think you're right. And you seem pretty… formidable, whether you can fight or not."

She gives me that close-lipped smile again. "Thank you."

"But if we ally, I think we should have at least one more person who can use a weapon, for in case we run into the Ten guy or something. I figure we're screwed against the Careers no matter what, but with one more person I could take anyone else."

Luther frowns. "Hmm. Who were you thinking?"

"I… don't know. Who _would _ally with us? The Twelve boy is big, but…"

She shakes her head. "He's too strong. He can already handle anyone but the Careers, plus he's got a target on his back. Bringing him in would put our whole alliance on the Career radar. We need someone strong, but less obvious."

I point at the Three girl. "Her?"

"She's not very big."

"She's got muscle, though, and I saw her with a knife earlier. She knows how to fight."

"She's with the boy. Four is too many."

"Maybe we can convince her to come with us."

Luther shrugs. "If you like."

We go to the first aid station, where the Three girl is staring at a pile of medical supplies like it's something simultaneously offensive and inexplicable, her eyes narrowed. The boy is trying to demonstrate how to splint an arm.

"How do you know that?" the girl grumbles.

"My neighbor was kinda the nurse of the building, I dunno. Broke my arm a lot. Ended up helping her out some, and she taught me–"

She gives him an unreadable look. "Was this before or after you helped old ladies cross the street?"

"After, actually," he sniffs. "She made her grocery run at ten sharp."

The girl's forehead thuds against the table. "You have got to be kidding me," she groans.

"Um… hey," I break in. Why am _I _making the introduction? I barely wanted allies at all.

The Three girl looks up, giving me what I'm starting to realize is her trademark flat look. The boy leans around her shoulder to regard me. How am I supposed to ask her with him right there? But Luther's right, four is too many, plus I sort of like the idea of an all-girls alliance.

"Hey," she says.

"I'm Kaya. This is Luther."

"Viss. This is Luka." Viss's expression doesn't change as she introduces herself, but Luka gives me a huge grin. I already feel bad for excluding him. It's like locking a puppy outside.

"We were wondering if you were looking for an alliance."

"Me or us?" she says.

"Well, um… I meant just you."

Luka looks up at Viss in alarm, like it seems likely to him that she might accept. She doesn't even look at him, keeping her eyes on mine instead. "We're a package deal."

"Oh." I glance at Luther, who gives me a _don't ask me _shrug. Isn't knowing everything supposed to be her thing? But the fact that she had to convince me to ally makes me the unofficial leader of our two-woman band, I guess. She'll advise me, and her advice is 'no', but she's letting me decide.

Will four people really bring the Careers down on us? And who says there'll even _be _four after the Bloodbath, if it's as awful as Luther predicts?

"Both of you is fine, then," I say. "But in that case, we shouldn't train together or we'll get the Careers' attention. How about we just say automatic truce if we run into each other in the Arena before the final twelve, and we'll figure something out then?"

Viss nods. "That works."

I glance at Luther. She nods, looking genuinely satisfied with the arrangement.

"Okay," I say. "Well… see you later, then? Hopefully."

Viss nods. "Hopefully."

I guess Luka doesn't get a say in this? Actually, I don't think he's spoken since I got Viss's attention, but he seems content enough with the negotiations.

I should've asked them more questions, in retrospect, but it's too late. Does Viss do anything other than shank people? Does Luka do anything other than first aid? Does she ever smile? Does he ever talk to anyone but her? I guess I'll find out.

Hopefully.


	18. Training: Fenris

**Fenris Carter, District Ten, 18**

The Capitol people keep following me. Every time I get too close to another tribute, they creep forward. I want to attack them. So many, though. I know they'll just keep coming and coming, like ants out of a broken hill, and I'll be outnumbered even though I could easily kill any five of them.

I can't kill the other tributes yet. I know. I understand that killing is for the Arena. But they're afraid I don't understand. They can tell I'd rather just kill _now _because this room feels so dangerous, everyone in it creeping and plotting and planning and it goes against all my instincts not to creep up on them one by one and snap their necks.

I only half-understand what's going on. First I was alone in the woods, doing what I needed to in order to survive. Then they found me and it was go here, do this, don't eat that, Fenris _put him down _but _we just want to help, you need to be integrated into society _and I was so, so restless and frustrated, squinting at books at school, tensing under the glares and occasional daring pinch of the other kids until finally one of them made me too angry and I jumped on him and starting ripping at him and that was when they decided maybe I didn't need to go to school after all, maybe the stockyards were a better place. Maybe I'd be better off with the other animals.

But there's always been that cardinal rule: don't kill anyone. Preferably don't kill any_thing, _but a sheep now and then if I get hungry is forgivable. People, I was told in no uncertain terms, are not. If I kill a person, they'll kill me.

But then my name was picked, and now I'm _supposed _to kill people? I think that's what's going on here. Sometimes people talk too fast and I get lost, but I'm pretty sure that's what Mrs. Carter said the Games are. Your name is drawn. You go with Them. They take you somewhere for a while, then They put you in the Arena, and then you do your best to survive. That's the only rule. Killing people is allowed.

But aside from the frustration and how tense it makes me to be in a room with people who want to kill me, I like training. These skills are actually useful. What plants I can eat. How to use weapons. I like them all, but I think my favorite is a huge, spiked mace. It feels light in my hands, but when it hits a dummy, there's not much left.

The other tributes notice, one by one. The big kids—Careers, I hear them called—are watching me from the beginning, and I'm watching them back. They're threats, big ones. Powerful. The boy with his hair tied in a bun with a shoelace has me marked as a threat as well. I don't worry about him until I see him talking with a tall blond boy. They're both weaker than me, but together, armed, they might stand a chance. A boy with red and blue hair—did he fall in a berry patch?—looks scared. The girl next to him just stares.

The little kids don't bother me. There's a dark-haired boy—District Twelve, I think?—who's about my size, but he doesn't know how to fight or hunt. A skinny, short-haired girl I instinctively don't like—District Five—sizes me up briefly. The willowy boy from her District isn't a threat, but why does he keep looking at me? And swallowing hard? He must be scared.

Good. I catch his eye and swing the mace with all my strength. The whole gym goes dead silent as the roar that goes along with the effort echoes off the cement walls. The dummy is a sad pile of shredded rubber. The boy sucks in a breath and sits down hard on a bench at his station. He must be _really _scared.

Even better.

I want to do something to practice stealth, but the person on the train who told me what to do said I need to stick to strength stuff, since that won't give anything away. They all know I'm strong. No one expects me to be sneaky. I didn't like that woman, but once she explained it a few times it made sense. They won't be on the lookout for me sneaking up on them if they don't think I can. So, I shouldn't let them know I can. I understand.

I go to the sword station, where Lillen is. They'll let me be near Lillen. I guess they think if I haven't killed her yet, I probably won't. They're right. Lillen is better than the rest of them. I'll kill her if I have to, but not until then. I understand her when she talks to me. She's strong and I know she was useful back home. She should survive, if I don't.

"Hey," she smiles.

I grunt back at her.

The person running the booth grins at me uncertainly. "What kind of sword do you want to try?"

I don't know. I frown and look at Lillen to see if she knows.

"Just give him the biggest, heaviest one you've got," she says. "He'll have a great time."

The attendant nods, vanishes into a little hallway behind the booth, and returns staggering under the weight of a blade that's got to be as long as some of the shorter tributes are tall. It's satisfyingly heavy, too; I think I could cut someone in half with this. I want to try.

Lillen gestures at a dummy invitingly. "C'mon, wolfboy, let's see it."

I wave the sword around a little to get a feel for it—the Capitol person goes pale and ducks under the counter, and even Lillen takes a step back when I almost whack one of her orange braids off—but soon the weight feels comfortable in my hand. I charge at the dummy with another yell.

_Thud. _The top half hits the floor.

_Thud. _Smaller that time. I turn, frowning, to find that the slim boy from before has fallen on the ground. Maybe he's sick or something. I'll stay away until I'm sure. He's not worth getting sick to kill. The Careers don't seem worried about catching it, though, they're just standing there scowling and muttering to each other. Well, except the other skinny, dark-haired boy from Four, who's kicking the one on the ground lightly, and the tall blond girl, who's giving him a dirty look.

What weird people.

This is fun, though. I like this. I kill another dummy. And then another one, stabbing it through the heart and cutting its head off before slicing it in half this time. Then the rest of the dummies. I almost kill Lillen by accident, but she sees it coming and ducks as the blade whooshes over her head.

Everyone should be like that. Knowing strength when they see it. What they're capable of fighting, and how to get away if they can't. I shouldn't have to tiptoe, be careful, remember how easily skin tears and bones break. I should be able to do what I want and people should get out of my way because it's so much _simpler _that way. It's natural.

But through that sequence and system of events I still don't clearly understand, I'm going somewhere where natural law reigns. The strongest survives. I'm the strongest.


	19. Training: Elfor

**Elfor Evain, District Eleven, 14**

I know on some level that making friends is just setting myself up for something awful. But this is going to be awful no matter what I do. So I might as well spend my last few days with a group of people who seem nice rather than running headlong through who-knows-what alone until something kills me, right?

The three girls seem taken aback by how quickly I accept their offer of an alliance. I don't bother sizing them up as fighters or survivalists because honestly, I don't care. They're breathing and that's good enough.

Des, who seems to be the spokeswoman, nods. "So now what? We've mostly been doing survival stuff. What have you been up to?"

"Errr…"

Wandering around trying not to bump into the Careers, mostly, but I don't think that's a good answer. Neither of the other girls strike me as likely to speak. Castalia, the Nine girl, is staring at me appraisingly, and Felicity's attention is squarely on the floor.

"Taking a look at everything, but I haven't really dug into anything," I finally say. Good enough. I'm not usually so awkward. Actually, I'm usually the one making all of the noise, but this whole situation is so crazy I have no idea what to do or say.

Des nods. "Okay. So we should probably try some weapons then, right?"

The girls exchange glances that apparently amount to a consensus in whatever hivemind they've formed, because they turn almost in sync and head in the direction of the archery station. Okay. That's borderline creepy, but sure.

"So where are you from?" Des asks as she wrestles a string onto a bow. "I mean, I know you're from Eleven, but… you know what I mean."

"Station City."

Felicity tilts her head, giving me that serious look that I'm starting to realize is her default expression. "What's that?"

"Rail hub. Everything gets shipped there to go to the Capitol."

"So you don't work on a farm?" Des cuts back in.

"Nope. Never been on a farm in my life."

"Where do you work, then?"

"Well, I, uh… I don't. I just go to school and do swim team."

Felicity and Castalia exchange glances. Des scrunches up her eyebrows. "They have swim team in District Eleven?"

"They do in Station City," I shrug. "I dunno, it's… kinda a lot nicer than the rest of Eleven."

"Oh."

"What about you guys?" I ask, more to change the subject than anything else, although I wouldn't mind knowing more about them. There's clearly already a group dynamic in place that I'm not part of and it's stressing me out. I hate feeling like that person on the edge of the group, always watching their step because their position in it is so shaky. It's not a situation I find myself in often, but here I am.

"I don't work either," Des says. "My mom and sister are engineers."

"My parents have a grocery store," Felicity adds solemnly, tying back her dark blond hair. "I have two little sisters and a brother."

I turn to Castalia. She opens her mouth and closes it again. "Well…"

Des and Felicity, I notice, are paying close attention, like she hasn't told them where she's from either.

"My dad works in the wheat fields. I have four siblings," she finally says, in that careful tone that means it's technically the truth, but she's twisting her words or leaving out something important.

_Thud. _

Des interrupts with a victory whoop. We turn to see the arrow buried in the target, not quite in the bulls-eye, but close to it.

My jaw drops. "Was that your first shot?"

"Yep," she grins. She draws back another arrow and lets it go, but it hits farther from the center.

Castalia elbows her. "Beginner's luck."

"Wanna bet?" Des sniffs. Her third shot is a bulls-eye.

Jeez. Well, this can't be that hard then, right? I pick a bow of my own. An attendant hurriedly runs me through how to hold the bow and the arrow, then situates me just behind a yellow line on the ground facing the targets.

The first thing I notice is that drawing the bow takes more strength than I expected. I can do it, but it takes some effort, and I'm impressed that Des got so much force behind her shot. She's visibly stocky, but now I know it's muscle.

I let my arrow go. It misses the target entirely.

"Aw, man," I sigh.

"Not a bad first shot," the attendant assures me. At first I think he's just saying it to make me feel better, but I realize he's right when I look over to see Felicity and Castalia struggling with their bows. Felicity can draw hers, but it makes her arm shake so much that there's no way she's hitting anything with it. Castalia can't even draw hard enough to send the arrow more than three-quarters of the way to the target.

Man, how screwed are we?

I can't help thinking that even though there are four of us, we're still basically helpless. Am I supposed to be the muscle here? What am I supposed to do against the Careers, or the Twelve guy, or the wolfman from Ten? I'm decently strong for my age, sure, but we're not fighting in age brackets here. Any of them could snap me in half.

"Archery was invented during the Paleolithic era," Felicity comments, more to herself than to us, still staring at the target.

Des blinks. "When was the Paleolithic, again?"

"Probably during the Upper Paleolithic, to be exact. Between fifty and ten thousand years ago. Roughly. They largely replaced spears as a projectile weapon, and remained in favor until the widespread use of firearms, which in turn were replaced by laser, nuclear, and blast weapons."

"Oh," I say.

Des looks over my shoulder distractedly. "Mm."

I turn to see what she's looking at. Her District partner, a biggish, scowly, dark-haired guy, is crossing the gym, and I get the feeling he was looking at us a second ago.

"I wanted him to join," she says, answering my unspoken question. "He said no."

"How come?"

"He didn't really give a reason. Maybe he just thought his chances were better alone."

Over Des's shoulder, the guy looks up again, and something tells me that's not the reason. He looks sad. Like he sees a bunch of dead bodies when he looks at us and just doesn't want to get any closer than he has to. Fair enough.

**Done with training. Hallelujah. Six to go.**


	20. Interviews: Ash

**Ashler "Ash" Lytton, District One, 17**

The training scores come in and I'm happy enough. Straight tens for the trained Careers. Woohyun manages an eight, Ariel a seven. It's mostly what I'd expect for everyone else—those big guys from the outer Districts score high, the athletic Six, Seven, and Ten girls a bit lower. The only surprises are the thirteen-year-old from Eight, who gets a seven, and the District Threes, where the boy gets an eight and the girl a nine.

I don't bother committing the scores to memory. It's all subjective, and anyway, I know half the tributes outside our pack will deliberately score low just to keep us from coming after them. I don't get that thought process. Do they think we'll see them and be like, oh, that guy only got a four, forget about him? People are dumb.

But I guess I can't blame them for being intimidated. The Careers are strong this year. Hell, even I'm a little scared of us. Forget the other tributes; how the hell am I supposed to get rid of my allies, especially when my strategic position among them isn't exactly stellar?

Somehow, Jaiven became the leader of the Career pack. What's even weirder is that it doesn't bother me. I came into this determined to establish myself as the unquestioned Grand Poobah, and I think Amaris had the same idea, but Jaiven sort of slipped past both of us and quietly took charge.

I can't get mad at him because I really don't think he did it on purpose; it just sort of happened. And whether I like it or not, I can't help thinking that maybe it's better this way. No constant fighting between Amaris and I, anyway, and he really is good at getting us to work together, operating on consensus rather than trying to intimidate us. Anyway, the Gamemakers love assassinating the Career leader just to shake things up. I don't mind letting him take that metaphorical bullet. Or real one, if it's a gun year.

What _does _bother me is that there are sub-alliances forming and I'm getting left out. Amaris and Merona have morphed into an irritable, two-headed, insult-spitting menace. Jaiven and Amelia seem to be close friends already. Ariel follows Amelia around like a particularly unsettling puppy. Best of luck to her with that. As I watch, Jaiven sits down next to Woohyun and starts talking to him, which leaves no one for me to claim as a sidekick.

I scowl and lean back in my chair, glancing around the little holding room they've stuffed us in before we go out for the interviews. Most of the other tributes seem to share my mood. I try to guess what they're thinking. The Six boy, whose red beard is starting to grow back, looks far less confident than usual. Stage fright, I bet. The little Three guy seems to share his dismay, but the Three girl says something to him and he looks happier. I can tell at a glance that they're a thing. How tragic.

I check out the outer Districts to see how it's going in Crazy Motherfucker Corner. The white-blond Nine boy is staring at the wall with a vacant, wide-eyed smile, and I get the feeling he's practicing arranging his face that way. The District Ten wolfman is glowering at everyone from a corner, teeth slightly bared, like he really wants to start ripping throats out. The Six girl is as grumpy as ever. Then, of course, there's everyone's favorite nuclear-powered Casanova wannabe, who's at least stopped with the dirty jokes for now in favor of taking a nap on Amelia's shoulder. Her expression is less _oh how cute _and more _this is not a battle worth fighting; just leave him there, it's fine._

Finally the ear-piercingly high-pitched woman of the day comes careening into the room to fetch us. There's a collective don't-waste-my-time-like-that glower from the Careers and an oh-shit-can-we-have-five-more-minutes look from everyone else.

We file out into the huge auditorium thingy and even I have to concentrate on not letting my jaw drop. We have nice things in District One, but this is ridiculous. Everything is luxuriously wide-open and beautifully ornate. I'm in the end seat, and my armrest is carved to look like a pouncing lion. Definitely handmade. Did someone in the Capitol do that, or is there some sorry bastard out there in the Districts whose job title is Armrest Lion Thingy Sculptor? What a kick in the face, especially if the Armrest Lion Thingy Sculptor is from a starving District.

Sucks to suck.

I yawn and take a little nap while a few neon people talk onstage. They'll let me know when I'm supposed to be doing something, I'm sure.

Amelia hits my shoulder. "Ash!"

Or not.

"Eh?" I mumble, rubbing my eyes to find the interviewer's crazy smile grinning down at me from the stage. "Oh. Yeah, okay, sure, coming."

"Hel-_lo!" _ he yells as I plant myself in the chair across from him. "So how are you liking the Capitol so far?"

I make a big show of looking around. "Not bad. You have expensive taste."

The interviewer frowns for a split second. Shit, did he take that as a criticism? More importantly, did the Gamemakers?

"– Or at least it looks like it," I go on. "Everything, uh, looks really… nice. Yeah."

Okay, so, I'm not off to the most graceful start. Whatever. I'll figure it out.

"Your surname," the guy muses. "Lytton. And those grey eyes are awfully familiar. Do you have any relations we might know about?"

"I'm glad you asked," I smirk. "My family has been in and out of the Capitol a lot, yeah. A few Victors in the family tree."

"Should we be expecting another?"

I turn and wink at the audience, flexing a little. "You tell me."


	21. Interviews: Jaiven

**Okay, so I'm trying to shoehorn their signature quotes in, and some fit more gracefully than others. If there's a weird line of dialogue here and there, that would be why.**

**Warning: Ariel. He kinda got away from me in this one.**

**Other warning: references to Chapter Twelve, i.e. Luther doing what it is that Luther does. Nothing even remotely explicit in this one, but it does get pretty dark for a second.**

**Jaiven Cali, District Two, 18**

I don't forget to smile and bow at the crowd as I take the stage, but quickly enough that I don't leave Mr. Jolltree hanging when he offers me his hand to shake.

"Jaiven!" he grins. "What a pleasure to have you here."

"The pleasure is all mine, sir."

I take the opportunity to sneak a glance at the other Careers, who won't expect my attention on them right now. No death glares. Nice. I was pretty sure they were all okay with me, but you never know. The only one giving me anything like a dirty look is Woohyun—well, he's smiling, but not in a nice way—but I think that's just how he is. Plus I just talked him into telling me half his life story. He's got that kind of dysfunctional background no one knows what to do with. At least I can make sense of families full of screaming and beatings and that kind of thing, but cold discomfort and passive aggressiveness, everyone quietly crazy in their own way, eating disorders and slowly disintegrating relationships… I'd lose it myself if I had to deal with that.

But he described it casually enough, that crooked smile never leaving his face, like he expected it to bother me more than it did him. Maybe he was right. And still not because he wanted to hurt me in particular. Just because he was bored and felt like it. Then I guess I pushed it a little too far, asking about the thin scar-like mark on his neck, and his face went blank and cold and that was the end of that.

Woohyun catches me looking at him and makes a face at me. Ariel leans around Amaris to make a face at him. Amaris bangs their heads together without missing a beat.

I blink and return my attention to Mr. Jolltree and his violently orange-red hair.

"Now, what inspired you to volunteer?" he asks, folding his hands in front of his chest and looking at me with sincere interest. His nails are four inches long and painted gold.

"I wish I could say something noble, like bringing wealth home or something," I say with a laugh. "But honestly, it just seemed like an amazing experience. The best adventure I could hope for."

Blatant lies. I know what happened to last year's designated volunteer when he lost his nerve and stayed quiet at the Reapings. Better the Games than that.

I mean, there's a kernel of truth in it. The Games _do _seem like an adventure. And I do want an adventure. Just not this one, not anymore, but it's too late.

"How good do you think your chances are?"

I shrug. "Well, I wouldn't be here if I weren't pretty confident. I've got a good alliance and I intend to play the Games honestly and cleanly."

Jolltree raises an eyebrow. "Has that ever been the path to victory?"

"I think it has. Good karma, if nothing else, right?"

He laughs. "I guess so. Well, good for you, I suppose."

"Thank you."

"But you're not squeamish, I hope? You're playing to win?"

"Of course. Someone unwilling to fight for what they want deserves what they get."

"No second thoughts about volunteering, though? No one waiting at home?"

I've already decided to answer this question honestly, but I hesitate just to play it up, taking a deep breath and playing with the hem of my sleeve.

Jolltree's face lights up. He leans in conspiratorially. "Come on now, don't you want them to know?"

"I… I hope she does know."

"But I'm sure she'd love to hear you say it."

I make a show of considering it. Hopefully I'm blushing as I turn to look straight into the camera. "Tavia Lamont, I love you, I miss you, and I'll come home," I say clearly. For all I know, she's not even watching—I told her not to waste time worrying about me—but that wasn't for her. She _does _know damn well that I love her; she didn't need to hear it from a TV screen. But potentials sponsors do.

Jolltree grins from ear to ear. "Awww, that is just _adorable. _I know we're all eager to see how this turns out."

Yeah, me too, I think to myself.

The interview continues in the same vein. I think I do well, coming off as polite and charming. A "good guy", I hope. Far from the usual Career angle, but I'm hoping to find an untapped demographic of people too softhearted to support someone blatantly terrible but also unwilling to get attached to someone who's obviously weak and doomed. At least that had been the plan, until Amelia played pretty much the same strategy right before me. Oh well.

I'm not sure where I stand relative to the Ones, but the applause is solid as I bow again and remove myself from the stage. Okay. I didn't shake things up, but that went well.

Merona's interview goes just as smoothly. She looks beautiful, in a goddess-of-war sort of way, a slim gold dress setting off her pale skin and red hair. She comes off as confident and far more intelligent than I realized she was. Maybe not wise or deep, but certainly shrewd. Let that be a lesson to me, I guess; you can have healthy respect for someone and still underestimate them.

Luka, the Three boy, is… unexpected, especially considering his deer-in-the-headlights Reaping. They've put him in a suit, but he's still got multicolored hair and multiple piercings in each ear. This time he plays the part. The grin on his face is almost manic. He's loud and unrestrained, throwing winks at the audience, constantly moving in his seat, like he's about to start somersaulting across the stage. His training score put him back on my radar, and after this he's there to stay; even if the interview was an act, he's got a lot more passion behind him than I thought.

People don't give that enough credit as a factor, but I think it's the most important thing. Knowing how to fight helps, but wanting to win is everything. It's not the big boys who scare me. It's the ones with that certain spark in their eyes, where I can tell at a glance that if I turn my back on them before their cannon has fired, I can expect a blade in it.

His District partner, on the other hand, surprises exactly no one, electing to stare at the interviewer and mutter one or two words when asked a direct question. When Jolltree asks how in the world she managed a nine in training, she just smiles. There's no humor in it, but a lot of teeth.

Woohyun gets the same question as me—why did he volunteer?—but I know everyone, myself included, is more interested in his answer than mine. They play dumb, but the Capitol knows damn well that my volunteering was supposed to happen. His was a a surprise.

Woohyun shrugs. "I'm as satisfied as I'm likely to be."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's a perk of being heartless. Chalk it up to teen angst if you like," he says with that same half-smile. "Doesn't bother me."

"You'd describe yourself as heartless, then? Why is that?"

"Telling you now would ruin the suspense. Maybe you'll find out if I make the top eight."

His departure from the stage gets a significant amount of fangirl screaming. Impressive, considering his angle didn't go that way at all.

Amaris hip-swings her way up to the stage, blowing kisses and winking at the wolf-whistles. Her dress barely qualifies as such.

"Another volunteer! Do I even have to ask if you're expecting to win?" Jolltree asks, never breaking eye contact with her cleavage.

"Looks like you do," Amaris laughs. "But it's not even about whether I expect to win. I _will _win. End of story."

"You're very confident."

"I'm realistic."

"No one at home you'll miss, though?"

Amaris laughs and laughs. "Oh, Jolltree, darling. Everyone worth knowing is right here."

He gasps. "Do you mean to say a beautiful girl like you doesn't even have a boyfriend waiting back home?"

"A boyfriend? From District Four? Don't make me laugh."

A few seats down, Woohyun mutters something indignant.

Jolltree raises a knowing eyebrow. "But you're implying you would date _some_one…?"

"Well, a Capitol boy, of course," Amaris says like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"You'd really deign to grace anyone with your affections after coming back a Victor?" Jolltree jokes. What a question to ask a seventeen-year-old. But I'm not surprised; I know how this goes. It's part of why I got Tavia to agree to let me mention her. I want them hoping to get me back to her, not hoping to get… me.

Amaris, clearly, has no such concerns. "Oh, definitely. After an experience like the Games, I'm sure I'll have some… _tension _to release," she says breathily, winking at the audience.

The crowd goes wild. Well played. She might've just booted Ariel off the top of the Capitol's To-Do list.

Ariel seems to feel the same way. Off to my right, Woohyun is snickering as Ariel messes up his own hair and undoes his top few buttons, which I guess is his equivalent of suiting up to go to war. Ash and I exchange oh-boy-here-we-go glances.

The crowd gets higher-pitched as some of the men stop cheering and more women start, still with plenty of each. Ariel takes the stage and bows, casually sweeping his suit jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair. Nothing he does is obviously risqué, except somehow it is_._ How long did he practice in a mirror to work out that exact brand of gracefulness? Because it's definitely on purpose; he doesn't move like that when he doesn't think he's got an audience. What a mindset, to practice _that _of all things in one's spare time.

Merona glances at me, raising an eyebrow. "You don't like guys, do you?"

"Nope," I say, trying not to sound defensive even though I'm telling the truth.

But she just nods seriously. "Good. So you can tell he's evil, right?"

"Evil? He just seems like an airhead to me."

"Don't buy it. He's smart. And mean."

"Oh."

"So," Mr. Jolltree says, gesturing at Ariel's general existence. "This is a very different look from the Chariots."

It is. He's traded the wireframe atom helmet thing for a blood-red dress shirt and tight-fitting black vest.

"That's true. What do you think of it?" Ariel says agreeably.

"It's very, uh, aggressive."

In the corner of my eye, I see Merona take a deep breath and rub her temples, and I want to do the same. You can't set Ariel up like that, as I quickly learned.

Sure enough, he grins like the Cheshire Cat. "What can I say? I'm versatile. I can do aggressive."

Merona gives me a _make it stop _look.

Jolltree puts on his thoughtful face. "Was this the same stylist?"

"Oh, no, I had to do away with the last one," Ariel says lightly. _Ha ha ha, just kidding, I was assigned a new one, _says his smile. _But if I could've gotten away with pushing the old one out a window, I would've, _say his eyes.

Huh. I kind of see what Merona was talking about. He's a non-volunteer outer-District tribute, but I swear he's genuinely unafraid, even happy, to be here. There's something bloodthirsty about him. Possibly in a raunchy sort of way, but definitely in a dead serious sort of way. Jesus.

"Well… that's the spirit of the Hunger Games, I suppose," Jolltree says, clapping Ariel on the shoulder in a way that somehow involves running a hand across his chest. Classy move as ever by the Capitol elite.

Ariel smiles slyly and scoots closer. "I try. Anything else you want to know, sir? Anything at all? I'm an open book."

"Well, I'll be perfectly honest with you," Jolltree says, winking at the audience. "I think there are a few questions we'd all like answered, but they're not things I can ask you on TV. Not to mention that it would be bad manners."

"Oh, you don't need manners with me, sir." The way he says _sir _makes my skin crawl. Yes, I said it too, but not like _that._

"Has this really never come back to bite you?"

Ariel blinks and I can practically hear the record scratch in his head. "What?"

"I… you know, your… attitude. It's never…? No one…?"

"What are you asking me?" Ariel says slowly. His voice is different. I assume what we're hearing now is what he actually naturally sounds like, when he's not putting on a show.

Jolltree obviously wants to backtrack, but it's too late. "Well, you did say to dispense with manners," he says with an attempt at joviality.

There's not the slightest shred of amusement on Ariel's face. "There's a line."

"Well, I… Can you blame me for asking?" Jolltree blusters. He turns to the crowd for support. "Right?"

The Capitolites cheer. I'm not sure exactly what they're cheering for.

Ariel looks like he's going to be sick, or kill someone, or both. Every hint of his racy persona is gone. "What?" he says helplessly. "What the fuck do you mean?"

He didn't know, I realize. Being from District Four, Amaris would know exactly what the Capitol can be like to tributes who catch their eye in… that particular way, and I guess she decided it was worth it. Maybe she really doesn't care. But Ariel would've had no idea what he was getting himself into; how little control he has here. Maybe I should've warned him, but it didn't occur to me and now it's far too late.

I'm almost surprised he's made it this far without learning the hard way. His "terrible" chariot stylist might've been trying to protect him, with apparent success. All for nothing now. If he even makes it into the Arena safely, his only way out is to die in there.

Jolltree tries to pat his shoulder again. Ariel scrambles out of his chair so fast he almost knocks it over. I get the sense he's mostly just freaked out by Jolltree in particular; he still hasn't figured out the full extent of the trouble he's in.

A few seats down, someone is snickering quietly. I lean forward to see who. Luther, the Five girl. What's _she _laughing at?

Ariel turns his face away from the crowd for a moment and takes a deep breath. When he looks up again, the mask is back on. "Actually," he purrs, settling back in his chair, "Go ahead. Ask. I bet I've got some… _fascinating _stories."

**Uh, make of that what you will.**


	22. Interviews: Castalia

**Castalia Yaldim, District Nine, 15**

Well, this is disturbing.

I look around for something to distract me from Ariel's unsettling interview. To my left, Caddis is still doing that thousand-yard stare, his teeth gleaming in his best attempt at a smile. To my right, Fenris sits hulking and silent, like a monster in the dark. I look down at my hands, clasped in my lap. Okay.

That tense, awful moment onstage ends, and the interview is over soon after. Luther takes the stage. She pats Ariel's shoulder as they pass each other on the steps. He's facing away from me, but he stops dead for a moment, then keeps walking.

Luther is evasive and not much else. By the end of her interview, I have no idea where she goes to school, what her parents are like, or anything else. Ted's interview isn't very informative either, but that's more because he obviously has awful stage fright. Poor guy. Reyna is blunt and quiet, until Jolltree asks her flat-out what she expects to happen. She glares at the audience and says she'll win, and I can hear in her voice that she means it.

Kaya's playing the friendly, outgoing girl. I think she's forcing herself to be more extroverted than she really is; her smile is tight and she hesitates before answering the more personal questions. Jukai's friendliness seems more genuine, but bland; I think the audience forgets his name as soon as he leaves the stage. Desdemona is energetic and adorable. Atlas is grumpy. Caddis… well, it's Caddis. I've seen enough of him not to be surprised. Sometimes I forget the Capitol people have no idea what they're dealing with.

And then it's my turn.

I'm nervous-excited. The balance tips more toward nervousness when Jolltree bounds to his feet to shake my hand. He towers over me by at least two feet, and he's huge; no wonder Ariel and Ted were so twitchy. He's got that big-excited-dog air to him, like he doesn't mean any harm but might run you over by accident.

"So you're Castalia Yaldim!" he booms. "This _is _exciting. You've been keeping a low profile, haven't you?"

I shrug, wondering whether I should try to say something clever or what. "It's a lively crowd."

Jolltree glances at Caddis for a split second. "Yes, that's certainly true. And how do you fit into that crowd?"

Des already mentioned our alliance, so it's not like it's a secret. "Pretty well, I think. I've got an alliance. You've already met Des, but there's also Elfor and Felicity."

"And what do you think of them?"

I think they're perfect and wonderful and lovely people and none of them deserve to die, but that's not the right answer.

"Des is great. She's a good leader. Elfor's nice and a good archer, and Felicity knows a lot of useful stuff."

"What's your role?"

I shrug again. "I'm quick. I know plants."

And I work hard, and I'm creative, and I don't deserve to die either, but that's _also _not the right answer. Why does this have to be so _sad? _Everyone here is a good person. Deep down. Some deeper down than others. But _still, _how is it not blindingly obvious to Jolltree and everyone else that this is wrong?

"You're from a rural area, then."

"Er… no."

Jolltree blinks. "No? Then did you work for an apothecary, or…? I thought your father was a field hand and your mother was a housewife."

"That's true. But I, er, didn't live with them for the last few years."

"Where on earth did you live, then?"

Yet another shrug. "Well… you know. Here and there."

His jaw drops in exaggerated amazement. "On the streets, you mean?"

"And in the woods, and… yeah."

"But… the records I saw said your parents are alive."

"They are."

"So…?"

"I was disowned."

Now Jolltree looks perfectly heartbroken, like he can't fathom what kind of cruel monster could ever hurt a poor, cute little thing like me. Gee, I wonder.

"Why…?"

"My little sister was sick. I stole some medicine for her. I think she would've died."

"Oh, my. Well, laws are laws, but… oh, my."

I wasn't sure if I should tell the Capitol this, but I decided last night that I want people to know. I want to make it to the top eight, and then I want my mom to be hounded with questions about me. Then I'm going to win. And come home. And kick her out.

I give my saddest, most adorable sigh. "I know. I didn't want to do it, but what else was I supposed to do? But people don't break rules in my District."

"Very admirable of them."

"I… yes. So it was… kind of a scandal, you know, and my mom said she didn't raise me that way, and she kicked me out."

There's a pause while Jolltree decides how to arrange his face. He's toeing the line between flattering me and not encouraging rulebreaking, I know.

"Well," he finally says. "You seem like a good person."

I smile despite myself. Capitol or not, I'd rather just get along with people. "Thank you."


	23. Interviews: Caddis

**Caddis Rapala, District Nine, 17**

"So," Jolltree says as I sit down across from him. "_So."_

I wait patiently for him to achieve a complete sentence that I can respond to. I've decided that I'll be very sweet to him. Hopefully the audience will notice, only I can't see how they could, with all the rude muttering and shifting that's going on. I want them to just… hush. _Shh. Shhhh._

"Your Reaping," Jolltree says.

That still isn't a complete sentence, but I gather it's all he has to say. I give him a friendly nod. "Yes. Very exciting."

"You, er… You attacked the escort."

"I feel _terrible."_

"What made you decide to do that?"

"Very emotionally charged moment, wasn't it?" I say with a shrug. "We all make mistakes. But like I said, I'm very very sorry. Is he alright?"

"I've, er, heard he's expected to make a full recovery."

I give Jolltree my best smile. "That's nice."

"I suppose it is," he says slowly. "Now, a more standard question, if you don't mind: do you think you'll win?"

"If I want."

"Do you want to?"

"Mm. Eh. I'll decide."

"And if you _do _decide to win–" The way he says it makes it clear that he doesn't believe I can win if I want to, and it makes me want to tear his throat out– "How would you go about doing it?"

"I don't know."

"Well, what are your strengths?"

Another friendly smile. "I'm very creative."

"… Are you?"

"I am."

"In what way?"

"I like to make dolls," I tell him.

"Just as a hobby? What do you do with them?"

"I put on puppet shows. For little kids. I love little kids."

Jolltree opens his mouth, closes it again, and takes a deep breath. "And what do you make these dolls out of?"

"Oh, anything. Twigs, stuffing, cloth, buttons, string. Hair."

"Whose hair?"

"Mine. For the strings. The puppet strings. So I can control them. What's the point, otherwise?"

"What's the point, indeed?" Jolltree muses. "But I can't imagine that's what you showed the Gamemakers. But you got… a four, was it? You must have done something."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I didn't want to."

"But don't you get a score of zero if you refuse to demonstrate any skills? How did you get those four points?"

I consider it, then offer my best hypothesis. "Maybe they gave me the points because they like me."

Jolltree blinks. "That would be… handy, wouldn't it. The Gamemakers liking you, I mean."

"Mm. Not really. It doesn't matter. Like I said, I'll decide later."

"Well. You can certainly decide whether you _want _to win or not, but ultimately it'll be luck, skill, courage, and maybe a little help from your devoted fans. Right?" he says, turning to the audience. One, maybe two people cheer.

I smile patiently. "No, I'll decide whether I want to win or not."

"Yes, that's what I said."

"I'll win if I want to."

"Well–"

"If. I. Want. To," I enunciate clearly, since there's obviously some confusion on the topic.

"I… well, that's certainly a, uh, solid attitude to go in with."

"Mm."

I shouldn't get angry. I'm supposed to be sweet. They'll think I'm crazy at this rate. I'm not, as I keep having to tell everyone, but they might think so. It makes me very upset when people think I'm crazy. They don't treat me well when they feel that way, and it makes me want to treat them badly in return, and I really don't think that's a good way for things to be.

Besides, when I get angry, I do things I don't mean to do. It's better when I'm in control. Of _everything. _I'm so good at it. That way things aren't so chaotic, don't change so much when there's no good reason for it.

Like my damn escort, changing her clothes and hair and skin and face every few hours just to stay on top of the latest trends. It was very irritating. Eventually I had to firmly ask her not to.

"So do you miss anyone from home?"

"The little kids. I love little kids. I put on puppet shows for them; they love it." Did I say that already? Oh well. I think it makes me seem very endearing.

"No one your own age, though?"

"No."

"No one at all?" Jolltree probes. "Not even a friend from school, or…?"

"No. There's no one," I snap.

He draws back, and I realize maybe I snapped a bit more literally than I meant to. Oops.

"Sorry," I say sweetly. "I didn't mean that."

"Right. Okay. And your family…?"

I smile, because I'm ready for this question. "My parents are wonderful. They work for the Mayor. I love them very much," I lie triumphantly.

"That's nice of you."

"Thank you," I say, careful to maintain my sweet smile. "I'm very nice."

xxx

**_Elsewhere in the Capitol_**

"He's gotten more paranoid. There's a group in Three that just tried to–"

"Not the point. We can't just kill him and call it a day; the government is a hydra. Someone worse will take over."

"So what do we do, slaughter the entirety of the executive branch, exterminate Tactics, and kill half of District Two to boot?"

"Not exactly. But look, heads are going to roll, okay? It's unavoidable. I'm doing my best to minimize the deaths."

"The tributes…?"

"May well have to be sacrificed. Among others. Look, I just need this thing in the Arena, okay? I couldn't get access after the final sweep."

"You can't tell me what it does?"

"You know I shouldn't."

"… You really think this will work? Whatever you're doing? You've got enough people behind you?"

"I've got someone from Tactics, okay?"

"How do you know someone from Tactics doesn't have _you?_"

"… Okay, I don't, but I guess I'll find out."

"I guess so."

"So will you give it to her?"

"If I can. Be careful, Tibbi."


	24. Interviews: Felicity

**Felicity Haywood, District Twelve, 14**

Why do I have to be last? The last thing is supposed to be the grand finale. I am not that. I don't have stage fright, exactly, but I think most normal people would be nervous to go on TV and be watched by… well… everyone, as far as I know.

Plus, oh right, there's the fact that I'm a skinny, introverted, decidedly non-grand-in-any-way fourteen-year-old girl. I spend my spare time reading about pyramids and cavalry charges, not dreaming up endearing, witty things to say.

And _then _there's Jolltree. I'm usually a polite person. I think everyone should be. But this is going to be a struggle.

I play with my dress as Castalia leaves the stage. I can't help being interested in how Fenris's interview will go. If Jolltree can handle Caddis, he can wrangle Fenris, but still. Best of luck to him. Not really.

Fenris stalks onstage with teeth bared. The boy is _huge._ A reasonable height, maybe six feet, but built like a tank. Even the Career boys are dwarfed by him. His face looks like it was made by smashing a rock with other rocks until it started to resemble a person. Maybe it's in my head, but I swear his grey eyes have a hint of wolfish yellow to them. Just from looking at him, it's alarmingly apparently that to end up in his grip is to die.

He sits down across from Jolltree and looks him dead in the eye, silent and staring, tensed like he's about to pounce. Jolltree gulps and shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

Not fun, is it, pal? Having to worry about him killing you? Join the club. We have T-shirts.

"So. Hello," Jolltree squeaks. "Uh, Fenris Carter, right. And how do you feel about the Games?"

Fenris digs his nails into the arms of his chair. "They're _taking too long to start," _he snarls.

"Oh. Well. So you're looking forward to, uh–?"

"Killing."

"Your training score–"

"With my _bare hands."_

_Crack. _The decorative, carved arm of Fenris's chair snaps in his grip. In my peripheral vision, I just catch Ariel Sevasti falling out of his seat, neither Viss nor Amaris lifting a finger to catch him. Guess he's feeling better. Back to normal, anyway.

Lillen doesn't change much. She's calm and easygoing, with that slight edge of anger. I get the feeling she's given up on herself, half because she's genuinely lost hope, but half because the Capitol loses most of its power over her if she doesn't care about winning. I respect that, I guess. But I want to live. Whatever it takes.

Like at his Reapings, Elfor all but panics. Definitely stage fright. He's pale like he's dead already, stumbling over his words. I feel bad for him; he's pretty charismatic and easy to talk to normally, but this is definitely a weakness for him. He knows it, too. The frustration on his face as he swings and misses spectacularly at a question is painful to watch.

Carmen tries to be pleasant. Tries. She's got an interesting, roguish charm to her most of the time, but she's not quite playing it up and ends up all but fighting with Jolltree. Ravy… I've never known what to make of Ravy. He almost never talks and it's easy to write him off as a dumb brute, but when he _does _open his mouth, it's always something intelligent. Sometimes he's almost sweet. Sometimes he's the most bitingly, acidly cynical bastard out there. Not at me. Just sort of at the world.

He takes what looks like a pained, patience-fortifying breath at the fangirl screams, then gives Jolltree a tight smile. "What a night," he says quietly.

"What a night, indeed!" Jolltree says about an order of magnitude more loudly. "And what a day tomorrow will be!"

Ravy laughs. "You could say that. _Only _you could say that."

"What?"

"Huh?"

"Huh?"

"What?"

And then it's my turn.

"Felicity Haywood!" Jolltree bellows. "It's a pleasure to have you here!"

I decided I'd be frank, but I think my knee-jerk response to that would be a little _too _honest. "Thank you," I say instead.

"How have you been? This whole thing must be so exciting. What's been your favorite part so far?"

For a moment I stare at him in blatant disbelief. Is it possible that he actually believes I'm happy to be here? Really, truly, in his heart of hearts? I look into his purple eyes, but I can't tell.

"My alliance," I say. "They're wonderful friends."

"Refresh my memory; you're allied with…?"

"Elfor, Castalia, and Des."

"Ah, rightrightright! Lovely group. And Castalia described you as… knowledgable, was it?"

"I think it was."

"And are you?"

"I think I am."

"Ooh, going to be our mastermind this year, then?"

I laugh. "I don't think I'm anything like that. I just like to read a lot."

"And what do you like to read about?"

"History. Mostly really old stuff. Now I wish it'd been something more practical, though."

"Well, you never know what might come in handy," he says with a conspiratorial wink. "Have you read anything more recent?"

"When I can, but it's hard to find things about the formation of Panem." I could elaborate. Something tells me not to.

"Ah, yes, well, that was a dark time," he says gravely.

"Hmm."

"What a relief it is to be alive here and now, isn't it?"

"Being alive is just wonderful."

Jolltree grins. "And the best things are worth fighting for, aren't they? See, I knew you'd be a scrappy one. I can always tell."

A few seconds pass before I'm able to respond to that one. "… Thank you. I appreciate that."


	25. Suit Up: Lillen

**Lillen Ketch, District 10, 18**

People aren't that different from animals. Fenris is a little closer than most, is all.

I volunteered before the chariots to help the stylists with Fenris. Really, it would be more accurate to say they threw his clothes at me and fled the room. I don't blame them; this shit isn't exactly within their pay grade. Not that it's in mine, either. Fenris likes me okay, but he sure as hell doesn't like formalwear. Getting a button-up shirt on him took an hour, lots of patience, a few quick dodges, and a conciliatory bag of beef jerky. The tie was a no-go.

Really, that's the key. You can push. You just have to know when to stop, and you have to know it before you've already gone too far. It's true of bulls and Fenris and everything else. Pride is all well and good, but there's a point where you have to know where you stand and what you're capable of, and not pick a fight with something five times your body mass with pointy bits of bone attached to its skull. Or with Fenris.

_Better to do a good job at your own pace than break everything fast, _my grandpa used to say. He used to say a lot of things, actually. Like _if it looks like it'd burn for more than two minutes, don't eat it. _And _doesn't matter if it's farm equipment or livestock births: when in doubt, more lube._

He was a smart guy, my grandpa. Didn't take any bullshit. What would he do if he were here now, lying in a cushy bed in the Capitol, staring at the ceiling and wondering what to make of any of this? Try to survive, I think. But only as long as he's got a right to, and not a bit longer. Know where he stands. What the rules are, even if the Capitol doesn't understand the rules of their own game and never will.

My stylist, Kieri, wakes me up the morning of the Games, and I ask if they need help with Fenris.

"Yes, we do," she grumbles. "But it can't be you today. You're not allowed to see each other. Not until you're out there, anyway."

"How come?"

"That would be telling. Just come with me."

I follow her into the hallway. It feels weird not to get dressed and wash my face and that kind of thing, but I guess that's her job today.

"Lillen?" she says quietly.

"Hmm?"

"Can I do something that might put you at risk?"

"I think I'm already at enough risk that it doesn't matter. Go for it."

She nods and ducks into a narrow side hallway.

"Doesn't this look kinda suspicious?" I point out.

"No cameras out there. There are microphones, though," she says, mouthing the words more than speaking them as she pulls me into a little storage room.

I find myself crammed against a rack of the District Ten costumes for the last few years. I vaguely remember some of them. The neon pink cowgirl outfit from two years ago stands out in particular. I had a class with the girl who wore that. She made it to the top five, farther than people from my District usually do, but in the end a Career got her.

"Are you…?" Kieri whispers. "Okay. About the Capitol. If I told you…?"

"I'm down for fucking up the Capitol's shit, if that's what you're asking me."

This could be some kind of trap, but I doubt it. They can't honestly expect me _not _to feel that way. And they've got me flying headlong into the Arena; why would they bother executing me for treason or something when they can just send me out there and drop a big rock on my head?

Kieri's face lights up. Literally. She's got LEDs installed in her eyebrows. "Oh, wonderful."

"What do you need me to do?"

"This," she says, handing over a smooth black plastic shell the size of an orange. It's heavier than it looks. "It needs to go in the Arena."

"What is it?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Nah, I've read enough spy novels to know that's how secret stuff works, it's fine. What do I do with it?"

"Just put it somewhere. Anywhere the other tributes won't mess with it and no one will notice."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"At the Cornucopia, you need to go down the hatches."

"Huh?"

"When you start, there will be a hatch in the ground directly in front of you. Go down there and lock it. Don't try to grab anything from the Cornucopia. Then hide this as soon as you can, for in case…"

"So I don't die with it in my clothes and it gets taken out with me."

"Exactly."

"I'll try."

"Thank you."

"Oh, anytime."

She gestures in midair. "Oh dear, we're running late!"

I follow her mad dash back out into the main hallway. Do they have contacts that tell time? Is there something implanted in her eye? That's… ew. Cool. But ew.

Kieri throws open the door to my dressing room. "Ta-da!"

My jaw drops. "Damn."

"Right?"

"_Damn."_

The Arena outfits are generally respectable, but this is better than respectable. This is _badass._ A long black coat. Serious-looking combat boots. Loose jeans. Gloves. A fitted bodysuit under everything. Everything black. Someone went a little overboard with the zippers and straps and buckles, but whatever; I can definitely work with this. It's very… post-apocalyptic.

Wait.

Uh-oh.


	26. Cornucopia

"Well then, Balthazar?"

"Well, what? Sir?" Deyna tacked on hurriedly, pacing back and forth across the President's opulent office.

"Everything is prepared?"

"As prepared as it can be."

"I can't afford any errors. And that means you can't, either."

"Oh, I'm well aware, sir."

"Are you?"

Deyna stopped pacing. "Is there something I don't know about, sir?"

"There certainly is _something. _As to whether you know about it, well, I'd love to know that."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about, sir," Deyna said innocently.

As it happened, Deyna was well aware that _something _was going on. It was subtle, but it was there. Odd, last-minute adjustments being made to the force fields by engineers he couldn't recall seeing before. Immense interest in certain aspects of the Arena by Gamemakers who had no business worrying about them. Gamemakers in charge of climate poring over tribute profiles. Tribute vetters studying his traps.

He was quite all right with this, because something had occurred to him: if whatever plot was afoot succeeded and the Capitol went down, these Games would be the last. Historic. Yes, he was probably setting himself up for execution no matter who came out victorious, but who cared? He'd be certain to go out with a bang. Possibly with a mushroom cloud. And so he elected to turn a blind eye to the creeping and whispering going on around him.

"There's a treasonous movement within the Capitol itself," Fife said gravely. "And it's gaining momentum."

Deyna blinked. "Mr. President, I told you I am no traitor."

"I truly hope so. Then you understand why I need these Games to be…" Fife gestured vaguely, then bared his teeth and slammed his fist down on his desk. "Do you follow?"

"Like a duckling, sir. You'd like fear stricken into the hearts of all those who would dare oppose you, correct?"

"Er… correct. More or less."

Deyna smiled just a little too wide. "I can do that, sir," he said in the soft voice that he knew full well unnerved people. "It will be my pleasure."

"It's more complicated than that, Balthazar."

"Is it?"

"I don't want this thing growing. Everyone who's not already thinking about rebellion? Keep them that way. I've got the bread; you give them the circus. Moreso than ever."

"Of course."

"Give them what they want to see. But _also _terrify them."

Deyna frowned and started pacing again.

Fife's expression turned dangerous. "Is there a problem, Balthazar?"

"Er… well. You see, sir, I'm not in the habit of manipulating the Games. It tends to–"

"Habits can be broken," Fife snarled, cutting him off. "I'll keep you informed of what needs to be done."

"… Thank you, sir."

"But you should be able to figure it out yourself, for the most part, and I expect you to do so, do you understand? The Nine boy scares people; get rid of him. Polls show that people want a fight between Fenris and a Career. Give them that. That, and fights within the Career pack, a confrontation between Kaya and Luther–"

"These things can be difficult to arrange, sir."

"Figure it out. I wasn't done. You'll give them a fighting death for Carmen, something cutesy between Desdemona and Atlas, get Woohyun to talk, and of course Ariel will need to bleed for the cameras a bit–"

Deyna winced. "I understand, sir. And the District Threes? I presume we've had our fill of star-crossed lovers for a while?"

"Hmm… no, give them a chance, but under no circumstances should they be the final two. Plenty of tragedy and separation and sacrifice along the way, of course."

"Of course. But good moments, too? For the story?"

Fife frowned. "It'll look soft."

"Soft, sir?" Deyna protested, stopping dead and giving Fife his best crazy eyes. "Oh, no. Not my Games. Not this time."

xxx

**Fenris Carter, District Ten, 18**

They tell me slowly and clearly: These doors will open. Go that way. Stand on the grey circle. It will go up. Then you're on your own.

They back out of the little room and I'm alone and restless and pacing as the doors close behind them. Big, thick, sliding metal doors that shut with an echoing _boom. _The fluorescent lights overhead go out and it's just strips of glowing orange on the floor that direct me. The orange strips get longer as another thick door straight ahead opens.

Something's wrong. There's something bad and dangerous, I can smell it and feel it and hear it. There's a sound like a cross between shrieking machinery and an animal's wail, rising and falling. A siren?

_"__Please move to your platforms now," _a pleasant male voice says from nowhere. _"The platforms will ascend in ten seconds. If you miss your platform, you will forfeit the Hunger Games."_

I've never heard that word before, but I can guess what it means. I sprint for the platform.

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

Oh no. Oh no. No no no. Nope. Nah. No, thank you. I quit. I'm done. Help.

As soon as the door closes behind my stylists and mentor, my thoughts collapse into terrified white noise. I'm just lucid enough to remember how fucked I am. I could so easily be dead in the next thirty seconds. Probably will be, given that I'm about to faint.

So I have no goddamn idea what's up there except that it's terrible, and I'll have zero seconds to decide what to do about it, and if I guess wrong, well…

Except no, because I _do _know something that's up there: Viss. Viss, who's been in plenty of life-threatening situations and made it out of all of them, who doesn't seem to have gotten the memo that fear is an emotion experienced by humans, who five minutes ago grabbed me and told me in her soft, flat voice to find her and she'd know what to do and we'd be fine.

Find Viss. We'll be fine. It's okay.

Then I hear the siren and panic all over again.

**Felicity Haywood, District Twelve, 14**

The sound is an air raid siren. I've heard it before, during a library binge on the Cold War. It would be terrifying even if I didn't understand the significance; there's something in it that churns up an instinctive, animal fear.

The ceiling slides back from my platform and I'm being rained on. The translucent grey poncho-thing they gave me protects me, but it doesn't make me feel better. I realize as the platform begins to rise that the rain is sticky and black.

The sky is grey. I get high enough to see the ground. That's grey, too, a wasteland of dark ash and rubble, bombed-out buildings maybe twenty-five yards away. The tributes are in a circle around the Cornucopia, as usual. There's also a circle of eight hatches in the ground halfway between us and it.

By now the taller, more athletic tributes are vaulting off of their platforms. I accept that I'll need a few more seconds and spend them watching everyone else. The Careers charge for the Cornucopia, along with a few others. The Six boy, Ted, bolts for the buildings. My suspicions about the whole thing are confirmed when the Five boy—nuclear reactor kid, I remember—scrambles off his platform looking absolutely terrified. He doesn't even glance at the Cornucopia or the other tributes; he sprints for one of the hatches and practically swan dives down it, slamming it shut after himself. I take this as a sign that I should do the same.

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

By the time I can even see what's going on, it's chaos. I heave myself out of the hole, onto the ash, and stumble to my feet. Directly ahead is a melee of Careers and a few others—the wiry little Three boy is diving for a backpack, the big Twelve guy is facing down a Career girl—and around me is hell.

"Des!" a familiar voice screams. Castalia. She and Felicity are a quarter of the way around the circle, heaving at a hatch in the ground. I skirt the fighting at the Cornucopia and run over as fast as I can, keeping my head down so the black rain doesn't get in my face. Something tells me it's bad news.

Felicity and Castalia have roughly zero upper-body strength between the two of them. I plant my feet and grip the handle of the hatch, tugging with all I've got. It swings open with a rusty shriek.

"Where's–?" I start to ask.

Felicity's eyes widen at something over my shoulder. I turn to see Elfor slide off the Two girl's sword. He tried the same thing as me, but he ran too close to the Careers. I watch in shock as his body falls to the ground.

"Move," Felicity snaps, shoving Castalia and I down the ladder inside the hatch. "It's poison out here."

"But–"

"Go."

"You two start," I tell her, then turn back to the chaos at the Cornucopia. "Atlas. _Atlas! _Over here!"

He's dodging back and forth, trying to get away from the Two boy. He bolts toward the sound of my voice. I gesture for Felicity and Castalia to keep going down the ladder, out of the way, then start down myself. Atlas comes crashing in after me. For a split second I see the silhouette of the Two boy looming at the entrance, but then Atlas yanks the hatch shut and all I see is black.

**Amaris da Costa, District Four, 17**

So many people fighting us, I love it. And so many easy targets.

The blond Seven guy is jumping around in place halfway between his platform and the nearest hatch. "_Ted!" _he screams at the guy who's hightailing it to the burned buildings. "Ted, don't go that way, come back, we have to–"

I kill him before he can finish the sentence. Maybe Ted will figure it out on his own.

Amelia's facing the Twelve boy down off to my left. I'd help, but Ash is already running over. The Three boy is out of range; he was in and out before most of us were halfway there. I make a mental note that even though he's small, he's insanely quick. Another hatch clangs shut as he and his little girlfriend peace out.

_Thud. _The Twelve boy hits the ground dead.

_Clang. _The Five and Seven girls are gone. _Clang. _Tens. We're going to get stranded up here if we're not careful, and something tells me that's bad. Ariel seemed to think so, anyway, the cringing little coward. It took him, what, three seconds to bail on us?

I jog over to one of the last three unlocked hatches, standing over it and daring anyone to try to claim it. No one does. _Clang. _The Nine boy scuttles underground. _Clang. _The Six girl pulls a hatch shut, and I think Ted is with her? I thought I saw him near it a second ago, gesturing like he was pleading with her not to lock him out.

Now it's just us. "Hey," I snap. "Time to go."

"We should go through the supplies," Ash says.

"We should grab what we can carry, fast, right this second, and then we need to go," I insist.

"She's right," Amelia says as she runs for the Cornucopia. "I bet it's radioactive out here."

"Oh, shit," Ash concedes.

One by one, clanking with supplies and weapons, we file down the ladder into darkness.

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

I pull off the plasticky grey poncho thing, careful to keep the water from getting on my clothes underneath. Hopefully no one else will know to be so meticulous about it. Enjoy your nuclear fallout, motherfuckers.

I need to stay healthy because I need to be able to think straight and fight if necessary. I need _that _ because I am going to kill Luther Constantine if I have to reach back from beyond the grave to smite her pale, bony ass.

I've had people go too far, not listen when I said stop, and do things I specifically said not to do. But that? That was straight-up, cold, calculated torture. Not in the good way. In the I-woke-up-screaming-the-next-night way.

She drugged me, or at least she tried, but she fucked up. I bet she gave me the exact dose for my size. But here's the thing: I do a metric shitload of drugs. I must have some tolerance to whatever she gave me. So it didn't work as well as she expected, and I think I remember more than she wanted me to, and what I remember makes me very, very angry, and I'm going to make her pay for it sevenfold.

**Dead: Elfor, Jukai, and Ravy.**


	27. Fallout

**I'm probably going to take some creative liberties with the effects of radiation sickness, by the way. Because plot, and dramatic effect, and I don't want to write about diarrhea, thank you very much. I like to keep my monsters and murders classy and stylish, except when I don't.**

**FAQ: What exactly is fallout? An unfortunate side effect of nuclear blasts is that radioactive material can get thrown up into the atmosphere, where it drifts around for a while before often coming down as sticky, toxic black rain. Depending on conditions, it can come down thousands of miles away. And that's why nuclear war is bad. Well, one of the reasons.**

**Lillen Ketch, District Ten, 18**

Kinda cold down here. Now I get what the fifty million layers of clothing were for. Dark, too.

I wait while Fenris snuffles his way around the perimeter of the room. All I can see is a bit of silver light glittering on scattered pieces of metal, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn he's got night vision. The light comes from a cracked, flickering screen in the corner, broadcasting mostly static, but the occasional glitchy shadow of what looks like a person's face.

"That's not creepy," I mutter. Fenris jumps at the noise. "Easy, wolfman. Just me. Find anything good?"

"No. Why are you here?"

It's only five words, but I understand his point exactly: we're not allies. He works alone. His gift to me is letting me leave this room alive. It stings a little, but I know I'm lucky.

"Gotcha, wolfman. Happy trails." I leave, forging out into a pitch-black tunnel. Great.

The black plastic thing is in my pocket. I know I should plant it fast, before the excitement from the Bloodbath dies down and the Gamemakers start going after people. Where am I supposed to put it, though, and how do I get rid of it without the cameras picking up on it? I wish Kieri had been a little more specific.

It's still freezing cold and the tunnel smells like dead things. I think I just _stepped _in a dead thing. I shake my head in silent judgment of the Capitol and carry on, feeling my way along the stone walls.

Before long I feel metal. A door? There's definitely a handle, the kind on the door of grain silos, where you have to lift and twist with all your strength. I do so, feeling around to see what I've just gotten myself into.

A little room. A closet, really. Shelves, full of what feels like dirty beakers and test tubes. Some of them are hot to the touch. But at the very back of one shelf, there's heavy cloth. A backpack? A backpack. Don't mind if I do.

My first instinct is to yank it out and send the glassware flying, but on second thought, maybe I don't want to be covered in broken glass and who knows what else. I move the vials down to the floor carefully until I've got space to pull the backpack out.

I unzip it to find a decent haul: a few water bottles, plastic packages I hope are food, one of those super-thin emergency blanket things, and a metal cylinder. Flashlight, I realize. I pull it out and click it on. The light glints off the vials, illuminating the cloudy liquid inside, every color of the rainbow. Yikes. I point it down the tunnel.

There's something there.

I only see it for a split second before it pulls back around the corner. It was pale, with glowing eyes, like a cat. On the tall side to be a person.

Okay. Well, that's horrifying. Note to self: don't go that way.

**Jaiven Cali, District Two, 18**

"This stuff is heavy," Amaris complains. "We should find a base."

"We've been walking for two minutes. Maybe two and a half," Woohyun points out.

"Yeah, well, I'm tired."

"Are you a Career or not?"

"Easy for you to say, little mister I'm-only-carrying-a-sword-and-a-backpack."

"Am not, I got a blanket and a pistol too."

"Oh my god, fuck you. Ugh."

The conversation continues in more or less the same vein. My peacemaker instincts say to intervene, but I know it's not worth it; this is just how they talk to each other.

"Hey," Ash breaks in. "You guys see light?"

"That's my favorite thing!" Amaris exclaims.

"… Light is your favorite thing?" Woohyun says skeptically.

"Shut up, princess."

"Speaking of princess," he goes on without missing a beat. "Where's Angelface?"

Amaris huffs. "He bailed. Didn't even hesitate. Can I kill him if we find him? Bet I can give the Capitol something to play on repeat."

"How about no," I suggest. "It looked like he just panicked to me, and we could still use him. I think we should give him a chance if we find him."

"I get to scare him, at least."

"If you must. Nonviolently."

"You're no fun at _all_, you know that? Ooh, yeah, that _is _light!" Amaris skips ahead, the small armory she's carrying clanking cheerfully. I'm half-expecting her to vanish down a trapdoor or something, but can't seem to muster the energy to call her back. Guess we'll find out.

Sure enough, there's a dim rectangle of light on the wall ahead, like an intersecting tunnel is lit. We slog our way there and it turns out to be partly true. The next tunnel isn't lit either, but light spills from a big door on the wall about halfway down. More, smaller metal doors line the walls, like we're in a storage area. I think I hear something scratching in one of them.

The lit room turns out to be gymnasium-sized, with industrial fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Each wall has a door like we just came through, a massive block of metal sliding on a track, but only ours is open. Weirder still is the hole in the middle of the floor. It's maybe the size of three king-size beds next to each other. Try as I might, I can't see anything but blackness.

"Hey, is there a flashlight in that stuff anywhere? Or a flare, or something?" I ask.

Merona jogs over with a flashlight and aims it down the hole. "Oh, wow."

There seems to be another room like ours a story down, with another hole in the floor. Then there are two more floors with the hole surrounded by metal railings, then one with a floor-to-ceiling chain link fence, and that's as far down as I can see.

"Well, that's creepy as all fuck," Amaris remarks.

"It's a perfect trap, though," Merona says. "Tributes on the floors below will be drawn to the light. If we come up with a way to get down there fast—connect a rope to each floor or something—we could listen for them coming and slide down and catch them."

"And anything down _there _can come up _here," _Amelia points out.

"So fuck that and fuck you," Woohyun adds.

Merona blinks and looks down at the blackness again, casually grabbing Woohyun's hair and giving him just enough of a push toward the hole to make him yelp. "Yeah, no, I take it back," she says easily. "Do we even want to stay here?"

"Let's leave the stuff here for now," I suggest. "If we find somewhere better, we can move it."

"Who's guarding it?" Merona asks.

Everyone looks at Woohyun.

"Oh, c'mon," he grumbles.

**Reyna Alcott, District Six, 18**

I can't believe I let Ted talk me into letting him use the hatch. But too late, now he's here, following me down the ladder through the darkness. Which goes on. And on. And on.

We've got to be five stories down by the time my feet touch solid ground. Ted hops off after me. "So."

"Fuck off."

"But–"

"Fuck off before I knock you out."

He sighs, and I hear his footsteps blundering off into the darkness. Good riddance, until I catch him and kill him.

My face kind of hurts. I'm not surprised—I've always had obnoxiously sensitive skin—but it's weird. It feels like a sunburn, but I was only out there for a minute or two, and anyway it was cloudy. The rain? But I don't think it got on my face.

That reminds me to yank the poncho thingy off. I don't think we're meant to keep them; they seem too flimsy to last long. Just for the rain up there, I guess. But why go to all that trouble to stop us from getting wet? Sure, the rain was pretty gross, but…

I realize ten seconds too late that I should've been way more careful. The rain is dangerous and they were giving us a chance to avoid it. And now half of what was on my poncho is soaked into my coat and hair.

Oops. It's still not much, though; most of it rolled off on the way down the ladder. Nothing I can do about it, anyway. It's too cold to lose the coat and I don't have any way of cutting my hair.

That reminds me: I need a weapon. And food and water. But mostly a weapon.

I strike out blindly, staggering around until I walk into a wall. It doesn't take long. There's a corner a few steps away, and a door not much farther. I guess this room only has the ladder in it.

Now I'm in some kind of dark hallway. I can hear Ted muttering under his breath off to my left. I'm about to head right, but then I change my mind and follow him silently. Why not?

**Atlas Edenthaw, District Eight, 17**

The first chance I get, I abandon them.

I tell myself it's because I'm totally amoral, always have been, why did anyone expect any different? But at the same time, I'm struggling to convince myself that I couldn't have helped them anyway. Who does it help, me sticking around to watch three little girls die?

That's it, really. I'm terrified of being responsible for them. I'm not that strong.

But now I'm alone and I'm having second thoughts. Not just because I feel guilty. Because this place is creepy as fuck and it's a million times worse when I'm alone. I left them the backpack I got, flashlight and all. I told myself it was so I wouldn't look like a _total _monster and turn the Capitol against me. Deep down I know I just didn't want Des to be wandering around blind in the blackness.

Which is lovely and all, rah-rah for me, except now _I'm _wandering around blind in the blackness, and I just heard something.

First I freeze. My instinct is to stay silent, but I've tripped over five pieces of metal in the last thirty seconds; whatever's out there knows I'm here. At least I can try to figure out what I'm dealing with.

"Hey," I growl in my best scary voice.

"Hey," a voice replies immediately. Male. Doesn't sound like one of the huge guys, but not one of the tiny ones, either. "Who are you?"

"Atlas. You?"

"Ted. Truce? I don't think I'm ready to try to kill you with my bare hands quite yet."

"Fine." I did keep the knife I got from the Cornucopia, but I want an ally more than a kill. "Where are you?"

"Here."

We marco-polo across the room—whatever the room is—until we quite literally bump into each other.

"Want to stick together?" he asks. I remember him as being pretty easygoing, but it sounds like his voice is shaking.

"Okay. Something happen to you?"

"Careers got Jukai."

"Oh. Sorry, man."

"Guess I'd better get used to it."

"Guess so. Now what?"

**Carmen Alvarez, District Eleven, 16**

I think I goofed.

I made it to the buildings. No one even chased me. It was too easy and I knew it from the beginning, but by the time I admit it to myself, it's too late. The only people left are the Careers. I'll never make it through them to the hatch.

I creep as close as I can, listening to them talking and rustling through the Cornucopia. I definitely hear the word _gun. _So it's one of those years, and now the Careers are packing heat. Great.

_Clang. _The last hatch is closed. I jog over to the Cornucopia and try each one for just in case. No luck.

Welp.

I return to the buildings for lack of anything better to do, crouching behind what's left of a stone wall and peeking over the top of what might have been a windowsill. The Cornucopia area is silent and still, except the ripples in the goopy puddles of rain.

The rain tapers off and stops within minutes. I peel my poncho off gratefully. Cold as it is, the plastic is making me sweaty and sticky. At least I think it's the poncho, but on second thought, I feel like I've got a fever. I'm a little nauseous, too.

I freeze at a hint of movement. One of the hatches is opening. The skinny Five girl creeps out, crouching low and tense, turning in a full circle. I duck below the windowsill when she looks my way. One she's satisfied that the coast is clear, she runs to the Cornucopia. There's another girl with her—Seven, I think—but she stays in the hole, holding the hatch open. Five slings her a backpack, knife, axe, and pistol. She takes another backpack for herself, along with two knives, two guns, ammo, and something small and shiny. Handcuffs? What the hell does she want those for?

I could attack, but I'd never get there without her noticing, and the deft way she loads the pistols tells me she knows how to use them. She slings a long rifle across her back and scuttles back to the hatch, and then I'm locked out again.

Damn it all.

The minutes creep by. I really don't feel good. Nervousness? But I feel calm enough, just sick. Sick enough to throw up on the ground.

Ew. Okay. This is weird. I move to the next building over.

More movement, at a different hatch this time. I resolve that I'm going for the hatch no matter what. I don't know what's happening to me, but I think being up here is making me sick.

It's the Five boy. He's just as jumpy and cautious as his District partner, like a cat creeping up on something, but he moves a lot faster. Physically, he's probably about as strong as the Seven girl, but he's no fighter and there's only one of him. I can beat him if I can get close enough to catch him before he flees underground again.

His back is to me as he rifles through the Cornucopia supplies. I creep out of the burned building, tiptoeing across the ash. The boy takes a haul almost identical to what the girl did, only he grabs a black case of something instead of cuffs. I expect him to run off with it, but he opens the case and pulls something over his head, tightening straps around his hair. A gas mask. Huh.

He turns around. I'm closer to the hatch than him, but barely. It's gonna be close.

To my delight, he hesitates, taking a step forward, then raising the gun, then presumably remembering he hasn't loaded it yet. Now I've got too much of a head start.

Should I bother trying to close the hatch on him? I think so. Otherwise I'll have him right behind me, armed to the teeth, and besides, I get the sense he's bad news. Better to take the opportunity to get rid of him here and now. I plant my feet and grab the handle.

Aaand it's heavy. Okay. That was a big mistake. I glance up to find the boy standing ten feet away, fumbling with the gun. If I go down the ladder now, I'll be a fish in a barrel if he figures it out, and I think he will.

I do the only thing I can and charge him, tackling him to the ground, lunging for the knife on his belt, not quite sure what my plan is if I get it. He's stronger than he looks. I should've known, given how fast he got through the hatch the first time, but I realize it too late. He's fighting like a demon, too. I'm coughing on the ash we're kicking up. I get a hand around the strap of the gas mask and pull it off for a second.

Huh. He's even prettier up close. What lovely green eyes. If only he were a she.

But that's very not the point right now, I remind myself. The look on his face is terrified and furious. I think he's holding his breath. Then his fist hits the side of my head and I let go.

So he doesn't want to breathe the ash. That's… not a good thing, given that I've inhaled quite a bit of it.

I get a boot on one of his wrists and a knee on his chest. The thought crosses my mind that the Capitol must love this. Yick. He's trying to hold me back, but it's his free arm against my whole upper body; he can't stop me from finally snatching the knife and getting it to his throat. Am I really going to do this?

"Wait," he gasps, his voice tinny and mechanical through the mask.

"You've got five seconds."

"You've already taken a fatal dose. But I can help you."


	28. Seventy-Seven

**Viss Bardier, District Three, 17**

"And then what happened?" I ask, rooting through the drawers of the dusty old desk against the wall of the dusty old room. At least the lights are on. The stuff inside is mostly useless, but I've found a notebook, pen, and a pair of scissors. You never know.

"Huh? Oh yeah! So then there's a Peacekeeper after me, right? And I don't even know what the hell I _did _at that point, but–"

There haven't been any cannons. Which means there must be some other way to tell who's left alive. That, or we just try to keep track, which is why I think the notebook will be useful.

It's not empty. The first half is full of equations I can't make head or tail of, but then it devolves into an apocalyptic log, full of crazy scribbles. _We've been down here seventy-seven days, seventy-seven, seventy-seven, seventy-seven, _so on and so on, covering three pages. _Levels going up. Genetic damage. Unsustainable. Sector Two no longer livable._

"Huh," I mutter.

"No, really," Luka insists. "I shit you not, Dad threw him _in _a second-story window."

I crack a smile despite myself. "Your dad sounds great."

At first I figured his dad must be the toughest, most cynical guy on the planet to raise such a sheltered, innocent son, but the more I hear about him, the less it seems that way. Luka's dad—Joel Skade, I think he said—certainly seems more intimidating than Luka, but from how he talks about him, I get the feeling he's got that same weird purity to him. Maybe it's genetic.

Speaking of genes…

"Luka, don't sit on barrels with the radioactivity symbol, 'kay? You're nuking your future children."

He sighs and stands up. "You're awfully optimistic on my behalf. And you get away from that thing, then," he says, pointing at a rusting drum of who-knows-what.

"Doesn't matter as long as I don't get too sick to fight," I shrug.

"Aw, c'mon. Think about your hypothetical children."

I raise an eyebrow. "You think _I'm _gonna have children?"

"It could happen," he shrugs.

"Yeah, no. Even if I'm alive, I don't deal with the screaming little balls of rage, thanks."

"Screaming balls of _adorable_, you mean."

"I absolutely do not mean that."

"Yeah, I know. But I do."

"Well, good luck, then."

He grins. "Thank you."

It occurs to me that even though I'm in the Hunger Games, I'm happier than I've been in my life. Hell, I'm actually smiling with some regularity, and it's all because of Luka. He's a glowing, rainbow-haired little furnace of pure joy.

I cannot, _will _not let him die.

I shake the mental image of his shattered body out of my head and return my attention to the notebook. The scribbles get bigger and crazier and more ominous. _22 R/hr, 24, 27… Still can't isolate the leak. May be multiple, or total material failure._

_Supplies contaminated. _

_Not enough water_

_The water is toxic_

_Sector Three evacuated, disturbance in Five_

_SOMETHING'S DOWN HERE_

_THERE'S SOMETHING DOWN HERE WITH US_

_WE'RE GOING TO DIE_

"What's it say?" Luka asks, trying to lean over my shoulder.

I snap the notebook shut. "Just a bunch of math."

"Lemme see?"

"Nothing you'd know."

"I might."

"Luka…"

"It's not math, is it?"

I hesitate. "Well… there's _some _math."

He plucks the notebook from my hands. I don't try to stop him, even though I know I could. His face, already pale, goes dead white as he flips through it. "Oh," he says weakly.

"Yeah."

"You don't have to protect me, you know."

I shrug.

He steps closer. "Viss, I'm serious. We're in this together, okay? Don't try to stop me from being scared. I'm already scared. I'm fuckin' terrified. But let me pull my weight, yeah?"

"Yeah," I say without looking at him, because I can't take the puppy-dog eyes. Now I feel bad. Have I been patronizing him? I don't mean to, but there's something about him that makes you want to hide bad things from him. It's not just that I want him to live, I guess. If he walks out of the Arena alive, but as a broken, bitter, nihilistic wreck, I've failed.

"That's gotta mean something, though," he muses. "I mean, the water's obvious, but what's it talking about? Something's down here with us?"

"Probably a lot of things down here with us," I point out flatly. "Careers, mutts, traps, radiation… what else d'you want?"

"Still, though. Makes it sound like some kind of final boss."

"Huh?"

"Like… a specific scary, dangerous thing. The thing that'll get you if nothing else does."

"You're awfully pessimistic today."

"Well, sure, I gotta balance out you telling me to think of my children, irrepressible barrel of sunshine that you are."

"Bastard."

"That's true, I am," he says cheerfully.

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"Me too. I think."

Luka holds up his hand for a fist bump. I return it.

"Hope Dad doesn't mind me saying that on TV," he says, glancing around like he's looking for a camera. "Sorry, Dad! Love ya! Tell Chekhov I said hi! Don't let him play my video games!"

I bite it back, but the laugh comes out as an undignified sort of snort.

Luka's jaw drops. "Did you just laugh?"

"I did not."

"Did too."

"Did not."

"You totally did! Holy shit! I didn't know you could do that."

Nor did I. I can't remember the last time it's happened. When I was three, maybe?

Luka's face lights up. "Can you do it again?"

"Don't push it."

"Is that a challenge? Oh, it's on, sunshine, I bet–" His eyes widen. "_Duck!_"

Something grabs my shoulder. There's a smell like rotten blood. I throw myself to the ground, the pale, bony hand losing its grip on me.

_Crack. _Luka's fist connects with the face of… something. My view isn't the best from down here. Before he can hit it again, it grabs him, slamming him back against the desk.

I tackle it around the knees. Its skin is cold and slimy. The monster and Luka come crashing down on top of me. It's got its hands around his throat. He's got a boot on its jaw, keeping it from getting its teeth near him.

I yank an arm free, grab my knife, and ram it into the thing's neck. I'm splattered with sludgy, dark grey blood. It lets Luka go and turns on me with a gurgling snarl. Now I can see its face, freakishly big and misshapen, hairless, with huge black eyes and way too many needle-thin teeth. Luka's on his knees, clutching his throat and gasping for breath.

The monster lunges at me. I scramble backwards across the room, kicking at it whenever it crawls too close. Luka staggers to his feet, runs over, and jumps on its back. I can hear its ribs break. He dances away, snatching a piece of pipe from the floor, but it doesn't move again.

"Huh," I say.

Luka leans against a metal cabinet, then slides to the floor. "Holy shit," he squeaks.

"You okay? Did it bite you?"

"Nah, I-I'm fine," he says, rubbing his throat, which is already starting to bruise. "You?"

"I'm okay. Thanks for warning me."

"Yeah, no problem. Thanks for stopping it from ripping my head off."

"Welcome."

"Holy shit," he says again.

"Yeah."

"Holy _shit."_


	29. Something Fun

**Woohyun Averi, District Four, 17**

I'm seeing things. I hope.

It's just tiny flashes of movement way down there in the dark. They vanish when I look directly at them. I'm tempted to write it off as fatigue; we've been in the Arena for hours and it's not like I was well-rested when I got in here.

It could be worse. At first I thought they were going to leave me here alone, which, while I'd never admit it, would have scared the hell out of me. But then Jaiven pointed out that there are two ways into the room, so having one guard isn't the best idea, and anyway most of the alliances out there could take me in a fight.

I want to hate Jaiven, but it's tough. He always knows exactly the right thing to do and say. So much so that it almost seems fake, only I can't get mad at him for it, because he says the right thing to make me _not _get mad.

So he left with Amelia, and Merona and Amaris struck out together, and I was left with Ash. He's leaning against the wall right now, crossbow in one hand, bag of beef jerky in the other, munching dolefully.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" I ask, even though I'm not feeling so chipper myself. Then again, if I ever acted chipper, people who know me would probably try to send me to a psych ward, because that's one of the biggest warning signs.

Ash smiles. "You must be bored. Draw a picture or something."

"Aw, you don't want to talk?"

"Not to you. Shut up before I throw you down there for real."

"Like hell you will."

"You're alive because no one wants to make a scene by killing you," he says matter-of-factly. "So yeah, I probably won't. Not worth the trouble."

I roll my eyes and glance into the pit again. And then look harder. I _know _I see something, way down on the bottom level. Something with eyeshine. I feel like it's looking at me.

"I'm also charming as fuck," I point out.

"You're an ass. Don't get me wrong, I'd chill with you outside the Games," he says with a yawn and a shrug. "But you've got a hell of a mouth on you for someone who's built like a string bean."

I scowl. "I don't 'chill' with people."

"Whatever."

**Caddis Rapala, District Nine, 17**

It's like a playground crossed with a haunted house. I love it. I spend the first few hours entertaining myself by seeing how long I can get around without ever touching the ground. As it turns out, pretty much indefinitely; most of the ceilings have pipes I can crawl on, and there are wires and cables everywhere.

The wires aren't always the best idea. Some of them are sparking. The whole place smells like burning rubber, and a lot of the pipes are leaking. It looks like a lab building from a science fiction movie, if it had been trashed and then abandoned for decades.

I _love _it. I feel inspired to make something. Something fun. Something I can control to entertain all of Panem with.

There's a rusting sign on the wall: _SECTION 3A, WORKSHOP/LABORATORY 5, _and an arrow. Workshop? That should be a good place to make something. I run in the direction of the arrow, following the signs until I arrive at a set of double doors.

Doors? That's boring. I'm going to try to get in through the ceiling.

I clamber up the pipes on the wall until I can slither on top of the network of them on the ceiling. They vanish into a dark gap above the door. It's mostly filled in with plaster and cement, but there's a little gap. I'm little.

I squeeze through and wriggle forward. It's mostly dark, but there are little slivers of red light under me. From the workshop, I think, coming through gaps in whatever the ceiling is made of. I keep going, feeling my way around in the dark, until I find a gap big enough to see through.

I'm right above a countertop. If I hang onto the pipe, I can kick through the ceiling and only have a few feet to fall. I do so.

"_Holy motherfucking–"_

I dust plaster off my hair and turn to the source of the voice. A boy in a gas mask, much taller than me, but almost as skinny. District Five, maybe? He's got his back to a counter, tense, his hands half-raised like he's expecting to have to throw a punch.

"Hi!" I say.

"… Hi."

I glance around. There's a pile of stuff on the floor next to him. I think I see a gun under his black coat, but I'm not sure. Certainly a rifle is leaning against the area of counter he's claimed as a workstation. The whole room is lit only with dim red light, reflecting off the lenses of his mask. Some of the equipment is smashed and broken, but a few pieces are lit up and whirring. Weirdest of all, there's a tangle of stuff by the door. A wire stretched between them, looping back around to a gadget attached to a few metal canisters, like something you'd store pressurized liquid or gas in.

I look more closely. The canisters are labeled with one of those colored diamond chart thingies signifying what, if anything, is dangerous about the stuff inside. I don't remember which color is which, but at least two of the diamonds have the number 4 in them. I think that's the highest one. And it says HCN. If I'm remembering chemistry right, that's hydrogen cyanide.

And the boy is wearing a gas mask. Oh. I get it. He set up a trap for the _other _tributes, but I almost walked right into it!

I give him a cheerful smile. "Yikes. Good thing I came in through the ceiling."

"Close call," he agrees.

"Now what?"

"You tell me."

That gets him an even bigger smile. "Thank you, I will. I like you. I'm here to build something. I like to make dolls. What are you doing?"

He sidesteps to block my view of the pile of tools and vials and metal and circuit components behind him. "Oh… just messing around."

I hop off the counter. His hand darts to his belt. "Hey," I say.

"What?"

"I didn't notice before 'cause of the red light. How come you're all bloody?"

I can't see his face because of the mask, but he hesitates. "I shot someone."

"Really? Who?"

"Eleven girl."

"How'd it feel?"

Another pause. "It didn't. Not really."

"Ooh." I take another step forward. He flinches.

"Look, how about this," he suggests. "You do your thing, over there, and I'll do mine over here. Deal?"

"Works for me," I shrug. "Hey, wait."

"What?"

"Why aren't you shooting me?"

Yet another pause, this one the longest so far. "I think you're interesting. And I like your hair."

"Really? Thank you! I make puppet strings out of it."

"Yes, I recall."

**Yeah, Ariel killed Carmen as soon as she let him go. *sad trombone***

**Also, fun fact of the day: there are actual reasons to have creepy red-lit labs, i.e. any sort of experiment involving the absorption of certain frequencies of light. So, spectroscopic imagining, etc.**


	30. The Thing

**The song (you'll know it when you get there, believe me) is Yonce/Partition, because of course it is. Incidentally, my Spotify shuffling to that recently had some kind of Winter-Soldier-activation-words effect that made me repost this fic.**

**Merona Styx, District Two, 18**

"Left! Go left!" Amaris screams. I can't see anything in the dark tunnel ahead of us, but I take her word for it, throwing myself down the intersecting corridor. Amaris's footsteps pound after me.

"We should… fight it," I say between breaths. "Before we let it… tire us out."

"Are you insane?" she gasps. "Did you… see that thing?"

"Fuck."

I don't know what's chasing us. I know it's big. A little shiny, like it's got metal parts, but it didn't move like anything mechanical. In the split-second glance I got, I saw something twisty and turny and lightning-fast, like the incarnation of a demon in a scary movie.

Amaris makes a scared noise. She must've looked over her shoulder. I'm not wasting my energy on that.

"Up," she pants. "We have to go up, it's… just down… here. I think."

She's _really _tired. I can hear it in her voice. I'm slowing down a little so she can keep up, because if she makes it out of this, I want to keep our mini-alliance going a little longer before I kill her. But if it looks like she's done for, well… bye. She's not that important, when all is said and done.

We pass a sign with the radiation symbol on it. STORAGE DOCK THREE. DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT PROTECTIVE EQUIPMENT. Hmm.

Suddenly we're in a huge room, like a warehouse, stretching off in front of us and to either side. It's full of massive metal drums, each one at least fifteen feet high, rusting and plastered with warnings. The lights are, of course, dim, flickering fluorescents. Great.

The thing is gone. I look behind us. Just the gaping tunnel.

Amaris stops running, her hands on her knees, gasping for breath.

"Amaris, no, we can't stop here," I say even though I'd like a break myself. Between whatever's in those drums and the Thing, this isn't a good place to be.

She closes her eyes, grits her teeth, and straightens up again. Her breathing is ragged, but she forces herself into a quick jog.

There's a clicking noise, getting louder as we move. Irregular. Coming from a little table next to the door. Some kind of gadget.

I don't know if it's instinct or if the temperature of the room actually drops, but all of the sudden I'm terrified. Amaris must feel it too; she breaks into a sprint again even though her breath is coming in sobs.

This time I'm the one to look behind us.

"Oh, holy fucking _fuck, _Amaris, _run!" _I scream, bolting past her.

She catches me again within a few seconds. I'm less tired, but she's the faster sprinter, and fatigue stops mattering when we're both terrified. I can _hear _it, sort of, just outside my range, something high-pitched with a rustle like silk on silk. Something's moving in the corner of my eye. Something's wrapped around my ankle.

I hit the ground on my face, hard. Amaris reaches the door and sets her weight against the twisty latch thing.

It sinks in: the Thing has me. It sinks in more thoroughly when there's a burning pain across the back of my leg.

I don't think. I grab my sword and lash out wildly, kicking and slashing and thrashing until I'm vaguely aware that I'm free again. I stagger to my feet and start running again, feeling the blood dripping down my calf.

Amaris finally has the door open. I tumble past her and she slams it shut. No lock on this side. We're on the landing at the base of a staircase.

"Keep running?" I suggest.

"Keep running," she agrees.

We're two floors up before we collapse to the ground to catch our breath.

"Well," she says.

"Ow," I say. "Ow. Ow. Fuck. Ow."

"Bleed-to-death _ow _or not?"

"Not. Probably. Who does first aid?"

"The Girl Scouts, I think." Jaiven and Amelia, that is.

"Yeah. Okay," I say. "Let's get back to base before I pass out."

She could kill me now. Easily. But it's too early, and this isn't a bad enough wound to make me useless. Barely hit the muscle. I need a bandage, maybe stitches, but I'll be back in action tomorrow.

We finally make it back to the big room to find Ash and Woohyun leaning against the wall next to each other, chatting idly about cats and whether they are or are not assholes. As soon as they notice us, they shut up and start aggressively ignoring each other.

I don't get boys. I just don't.

"You're leaving a trail of blood," Woohyun observes.

"Yeah, no shit. Jesus and Gandhi not back yet?"

Ash blinks. "Who?"

"Forget it."

"Okay."

"Did you see the Thing?" Woohyun asks.

"What thing?"

"Something came out of the pit. Look. Look at that," he says, running over to the hole in the floor and pointing at the chain-link fence on the bottom level. There's a massive, floor-to-ceiling rip in it that most certainly was not there before. "I saw it, kind of, it… it… holy fuck."

"Yeah, we saw it too," Amaris says.

"_Saw_," I mutter. "I wish we just _saw _it."

"It did that?" Woohyun asks.

"Yep."

"… And you're alive?"

I roll my eyes. "That's why you don't fuck with me."

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

The computers are so easy to get into I can't imagine they didn't want me to do this.

I've got Kaya stationed at the door. I realize this is dangerous; the room was glaringly labeled SECURITY BOOTH, with signs throughout the Arena directing me toward it. I doubt I'll be the only one wondering if there's any good information to be had here. Besides, everything in the Arena has a price. The more useful this place is, the more likely it is that something will come along to kill me. Very fair.

It's not exactly self-explanatory, but I don't have to get too clever before I've got all the information I could possibly want that they'd dream of giving me. Some traps, undoubtedly not all, and their status over here. A list of the dead over there. And over here…

Ooh. Cameras. _Very _interesting. I have to do quite a bit of searching and clicking around to get anything useful, but before long I've found almost everyone. Two Career girls run past a camera, wide-eyed. A moment later, the camera feed blacks out. I check where they are. Floor One. Hmm.

The other Careers are having a less exciting day. Jaiven and Amelia are wandering in circles. Ash and Woohyun are throwing beef jerky at each other. Two outer-District boys, Ted and Atlas, are blundering around the second floor. Floor Two is quite busy, actually. The Six girl is skulking after the boys. The little-girl alliance has camped out in a vault. Too bad there's a monster creeping up the hallway. The insane blond boy is tinkering with what looks like a horrifying doll in a workshop, and on the other side of the room…

Ah-ha. _There_ you are.

"What?" Kaya says.

Oops. Was that my out-loud voice?

"Nothing," I say lightly.

I return my attention to the screen, squinting at the circuitry at his workstation. _What are you up to? Is that a trap I see? And guns and knives? Very good!_

I'm almost impressed. I knew he would be a formidable opponent, but he's exceeded expectations so far.

I can't wait.

**Castalia Yaldim, District Nine, 15**

"Guys. Guysguysguys. Guys," Des says, her voice tight and quiet, staring over my shoulder.

I turn slowly.

Oh. That's a monster. In the doorway. Tall and pale, with huge eyes so black I think they're empty sockets for a second. It's standing perfectly still, just watching us. Something tells me it's been waiting patiently for us to notice it.

I want to cry. I think the thing is designed to be as scary as possible. I know I have to fight, but I'd almost rather just curl up in a ball and save myself some stress and fear.

But I have to make the final eight. I have to, or else Dell will happily bury me and no one will ever know how she's pulling my family apart.

Felicity turns around slowly. For a second her eyes go wide, but then she's calm again. "Okay," she says softly. "No sudden movements."

"Will that help?" I whisper.

"I'm not sure. I'll explain." She never takes her eyes off the monster. "I thought I saw a vent grille in the wall. Can we get in there?

Des walks over to the grille in slow motion. "Yes, it opens. It's big enough."

"Go in. Go in _right now." _Felicity's voice gets tenser and faster as she finishes the sentence, and I turn to find that the monster is opening its mouth into an awful smile. Its teeth are like syringes and it must have hundreds of them.

Des clambers into the vent. The metal shifts and pops under her weight, sending a loud, reverberating _clang _through the vault.

The monster lunges at Felicity. Felicity dodges backward with a yell. Before I can react, she pushes past me, diving into the vent. I scramble after her, but she and Des haven't moved far enough for me to pull my legs in; the monster sinks its teeth into the top of my calf, right above my boot.

I scream and kick it in the face reflexively with my other foot, then do it again again. My arms aren't strong like Des's, but my legs are. The monster's teeth shatter and it drops out of sight with a hiss.

"_Go!" _I scream.

Finally we're moving. I barely have room to look over my shoulder, but I do every few seconds anyway. No sign of the monster.

Not that I'm much happier now, crawling through the ventilation system. It's pitch dark, cold, and echoey. I swear I hear metal shifting ahead of us. I wonder if it's the Gamemakers rearranging the tunnels, making sure we end up where they want.

"So how'd you know it wouldn't attack until we made noise?" Des asked.

"I figured, us versus it, unarmed in an open room, we'd have no chance, right? But I doubted the Gamemakers would want to kill all three of us so fast. They'd leave us some way out without fighting it directly."

The tunnel opens into a big room full of pipes. Only it's not a room, I realize. We're in the ceiling of somewhere. Dim red light shines through little cracks and holes in the material beneath us.

"So–" Des says.

"Shh," I cut her off. "Something's coming."

We flatten ourselves against our pipe even though there's next to no light in this corner of the room. The rustling sound, accompanied by grumpy muttering, gets closer. And closer.

The crazy blond Nine boy appears from the darkness, dragging himself along the top of a duct. There's something strapped to his back. At first I think it's a person, but as he gets closer still I realize that it's a doll. In the worst way possible. It's intricate and detailed, made of scraps of what could be lab coats, with features of circuit components and limbs of ring stands, and it's the creepiest thing I've seen in my life.

He grumbles and mutters his way past us. "–Can't open the door without setting it off, hmph. You should've thought of that _before _you had a guest, honestly. Rude. Everyone knows…"

He vanishes off into the pipework. We give him a solid ten minutes to get far, far away from us before we move again.

"Now what?" Des asks.

I swallow hard. "I think my leg needs bandages. Or… something."

"It bit you?"

"Yeah."

I don't mention how Felicity shoved me. I understand, I guess. I'd forget my manners too if I had that thing coming at me.

"There's more light over there," Des says, pointing.

We clamber over the lattice of pipes to the spot. There turns out to be a big hole in the floor—ceiling?—through which I can see a stainless steel countertop and not much else. I don't hear anything down there, aside from a faint buzzing.

"Works for me," Felicity shrugs.

I nod. Des goes first, hugging the pipe and letting her legs down carefully. When nothing rips them off, she drops down, landing on the counter with impressive grace. Felicity's clumsier, but lighter, and manages to land almost as quietly. I make it to the hanging-from-the-pipe stage without incident, but my arms give out almost instantly and I land hard on my bitten leg. I have to clap a hand over my own mouth to keep from yelling.

"Are you okay?" Felicity whispers.

"I'd like to say yes," I say helplessly. "But I don't think so."

We climb down to the floor. The room is a workshop, dusty and dark, except the flickering red lights in cages on the wall here and there.

"Uh-oh," Des mutters, pointing to a workstation on the far side of the room. A laptop is open and running, a soldering iron plugged in next to a half-assembled circuitboard. We're not alone in here.

I look around for a way out, but there's some kind of trap rigged at the main doors. No way we can get back up into the ceiling fast enough, not to mention quietly. There's a little door open in the back of the room, but we've barely taken a step toward it when there'd a loud _thud_ and a stream of curses from inside. The voice is male and older than us, and it's… weird. Synthesized?

We exchange glances. We could maybe take one older boy between the three of us—I figure Felicity and I distract him while Des slugs him where it hurts—but what if there's not just one of him? What if he's armed?

Felicity points to a pile of broken equipment in the corner, raising an eyebrow. Des and I nod and we tiptoe behind it. Unless the Gamemakers do something to blow our cover, we can just wait it out, or at least watch for long enough to see what we're up against.

A tall figure emerges from the back room. For a second I see what looks like glowing red eyes and almost have a heart attack, but then I realize he's wearing a gas mask that's reflecting the light. He looks around—I don't know what he's looking for—and pulls the mask off, looping it onto his belt.

The Five boy. I should've known, I guess. Usually Threes and Fives are the only ones with that kind of technical knowledge; Des is an anomaly. And this year's Threes aren't exactly rocket scientists.

We could fight him, but he's too well-armed. We exchange glances with each other again and silently agree to wait it out. My leg burns, but it's not bleeding too much. I can wait.

Music. For a second it's too surreal for me to register what I'm hearing, but it's true: the boy is playing music. He must've found it on the computer.

Well. Okay. I guess I don't mind music while I'm working, but honestly, is this a good time?

_"__Every boy in here with me got that smoke, and every girl in here gotta look me up and down–"_

I risk a glance over the top of whatever it is we're hiding behind. He's dancing, lip-synching into a vial of who-knows-what. Is he for real? It's the kind of dancing that would make your parents yell at you, too. He hip-swings to the next counter over, grabs some little metal doohickies, and sashays back.

_"__Drop the bass, main the bass, get low–"_

He does in fact get low. I glance at my allies. Des looks mystified. Felicity is definitely feeling some kind of way, but I can't fathom what that way might be. As for me, well… I don't know. I've given up on trying to make sense of anything. Better that he's distracted, I guess, given how many guns he's carrying, and the noise will help conceal it if one of us sneezes or something.

_"__I sneezed on the beat and the beat got sicker–"_

Right on cue, my leg twitches involuntarily against the pile of junk. There's the slightest, tiniest clink.

The Five boy whirls, pointing a pistol at the darkness maybe ten degrees to the left of where we are. He takes a wary step forward. We hold our breath.

_"__Took forty-five minutes to get all dressed up, and we ain't even gonna make it to this club–"_

Another step. Another. He dances to the end of the counter, marking the beat in the air with the muzzle of the gun. Unbelievable. I want to laugh, but it's not even a tiny bit funny, because if he takes one more step he's going to see us and kill us all.

He stays where he is for a long moment, staring vacantly into space. The beat changes. He snaps out of it, turns, and returns to his lab bench.

So now we wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The only sign of time passing is the occasional yelp and curse as the boy presumably burns himself on the soldering iron. I think Des is falling asleep. Felicity's staring into space, twirling a strand of ashy blond hair around her finger, her lips moving like she's talking to herself. Dealing with the pain in my leg pretty much occupies me. It's getting worse by the minute.

"Oh, _hell_ yes_. _I'm so good," the boy says to himself.

Okay. Good for you, Sparkles. Go be cocky somewhere else, please.

To my relief, he complies. There's some rustling and muttering from near the door, then the sound of them opening, and then he's gone.

We give him a minute. No sign of him coming back.

"How's your leg?" Felicity asks.

"I think not that good." I clamber onto a counter near one of the lights and unlace my boot carefully, pulling it off and rolling my jeans up.

Oh.

The red light makes it hard to tell exactly what's going on, but the wound is deeper than I thought. That's not the worst part. The skin around it is dark and mottled. I think there's something coming out of it that's not blood. It smells bad.

"Oh, dear," Felicity says.

"Oh, no," Des adds.

I chew my lip. "Now what?"


	31. Monster

**CW Luther making it weird as usual.**

**Ash Lytton, District One, 17**

"The 'gadget' you mentioned, though," Jaiven says. "You said it was making a clicking noise?"

"I think it might've been a Geiger counter, if that's what you're asking," Amaris shrugs. "No way in hell I'm going back down there, though."

"It's right next to the door."

"I don't care. You didn't see this thing."

"I believe you, but I think radiation detection is ultimately what will win these Games. Bet you anything the levels'll start going up. Gamemakers love that kind of thing. All your training doesn't matter if you're feverish and throwing up."

"It also doesn't matter if I get my head ripped off by the Thing," Amaris points out.

"No one's getting their head ripped off. None of us, anyway. It really is right by the door?"

"Yep."

Jaiven nods decisively. "Okay. Ash, you come with me today. Woohyun goes with Amaris. Merona and Amelia can stay here."

"Ugh," Amaris says.

"You're no prize either, darling," Woohyun snaps back.

Amaris tosses her hair. "The Capitol seems to think otherwise."

"Yeah, I wouldn't be bragging about that," I warn. "You've gotta know what happens to Victors they take a shine to."

"Huh?" Amaris says blankly. "What happens?"

Amelia and I exchange _yikes _glances. I guess that's more common knowledge in District One than Four. Jaiven has a pained look on his face, like he'd also assumed Amaris knew.

"Um," Amelia says. "Well."

"Uhhh…" I add.

Amaris rolls her eyes. "Whatever. C'mon, princess," she snaps at Woohyun. "Let's move out, I haven't killed anyone all day."

"You just woke up."

"What's your point?"

"You're an idiot."

"You're ugly."

"Your mom is ug–_ow!"_

Their voices fade out down the hallway. Jaiven takes a deep breath and looks at me. "Ready to go?"

"Sure."

We follow the directions the girls gave us. Soon we're at the spot they described, a heavy door at the bottom of a flight of stairs. And suddenly I'm having second thoughts about this. Do I really want to face down something that could shake them up that badly? There has to be a way of getting a Geiger counter that doesn't involve meeting something that sent Amaris and Merona running for their lives.

And that's just the rational side of it. My lizard brain is one hundred percent sure this is a bad idea. There's something bad here. Really bad. I don't know how I know it, but I do.

"Jaiven…"

"Don't you start," he sighs.

I scowl. I can't let him be braver than me. But…

Jaiven pulls the door open a crack. I flinch enough to make him jump, too. He turns and gives me a _seriously?_ look. Nothing else moves.

We peer into the room. He's acting cool, but I can tell my paranoia is making him paranoid. Still nothing. Concrete floor, leaking drums of goop. Just the usual. And, sure enough, on a little metal table a few yards away, a clicking tangle of wires.

"Hold the door open," Jaiven says quietly. He steps into the room, tense, sword in one hand, gun in the other. Still nothing. I keep watch, plus the occasional glance over my shoulder up the staircase. No sign of movement anywhere.

Jaiven reaches the Geiger counter. He sheathes his sword and picks it up carefully. I relax a bit as he returns, keeping to the wall.

He's right in front of me when something black lashes down from above and wraps around his neck. It yanks him out of sight just as fast. I think I hear his neck snap. The Geiger counter hits the ground right in front of my feet, but I'm not taking the time to pick it up; I slam the door and run.

**Kaya Redfell, District Seven, 18**

Why am I going along with this, again?

Oh, right, because Luther is terrifying and I'm scared to cross her. But, in some weird way, I'm also scared to leave her. If she's the worst thing in the Arena, and I'm her ally, what do I have to fear?

Well, her. But not for a while. I've pretty much accepted that I'm the Moran to her Moriarty, which is a blow to the ego, but also means she won't kill me anytime soon. Probably.

So here I am, crouching in the dark, waiting to ambush Ariel Sevasti. Luther's still in the security booth. She's found her way into the intercom system and is terrorizing him with it, laughing and taunting him and giving wrong directions. I can see her in there, twenty feet away, cooing into the microphone with a delighted, predatory grin.

_"__Oh, don't go that way, you don't want to go that way," _her voice echoes somewhere down the tunnel._ "Or do you? I see a monster! Want me to tell you where? Would you believe me? It's so horrible!"_

Somehow she knows exactly what to say, when to lie and when to tell the truth, to drive him straight toward us. I can hear him stumbling and cursing his way here.

The plan is simple, but it works perfectly. Ariel stomps into the intersection of the two tunnels, pistol drawn. He glances right and sees Luther in the lit security booth. I thought this was a huge gamble on her part—what if he just started shooting then and there? Is the booth bulletproof?—but when she looks up and smiles, he reacts just like she said he would, immediately realizing he's walked into a trap and trying to run back the way he came.

But I've already tightened the tripwire behind him. He falls on his face in the most slapstick way possible, fumbling the pistol, and I'm on him before he can figure out which end is up, grabbing his wrists and cuffing them behind his back. My weight is more than enough to hold him down. I've never felt so much like an evil henchwoman in my life.

I grab the dropped pistol and jab the muzzle against the base of his skull. He flinches and sucks in a breath. I blink and register what I'm doing, a little shocked with how automatically I did that. I could end his life with a twitch of my finger. I don't _like _the feeling, but I should probably dislike it more than I do. It's strange to realize that just by virtue of age and athleticism, I'm one of the more dangerous people in here, albeit under Luther's direction.

Luther strolls up. "Very well done!" she says with a huge grin.

"Uh, thanks. You know, I could've just chucked an axe at him," I remark. "What's the point of this?"

"We're not killing him," she says, swiping his remaining guns and knives.

Ariel tenses. I don't blame him.

"We're not?" I ask.

"Of course not. I'm not done with him yet. And neither are they."

"Uh… what?"

She pulls something from his coat pocket. A tangle of wires with a light that blinks a few times a second. "Ooh, nice. Is this what you were building?"

"Don't fucking touch me," he growls into the cement.

Luther ruffles his hair pointedly and he bares his teeth. I swear I can feel the hatred radiating off of him. This is… tense, to say the least. I guess I'll just continue silently sitting here on his back? I feel like an awkward third wheel, only instead of a date it's… whatever the hell this is.

"Look, what the fuck do you want?" he snaps.

"This stuff, mostly," Luther shrugs, gesturing at the pile of guns and knives and so on. "But since we've got you…"

"Luther, I swear on the scientific method I am going to fucking destroy you, and for every time you touch me I'm going to make it hurt twice as much."

"_Since_ we've got you," she insists like he hasn't even spoken, although the fact that she immediately pats his arm makes it clear she heard him just fine. "We might as well give the Capitol some entertainment. That's what the Games are all about, after all."

"You're out of your goddamn mind," he says in disbelief. "Are you for real or are you some comic book villain who just-?"

"I think you know I'm very real, darling."

"Don't call me that, you evil fucking psychopath."

"Fine, you easy little bitch."

I almost choke on my spit. I'm tempted to stare at the ceiling and start whistling. And I'm starting to think this isn't their first run-in. What happened before the Games? Who started it?

Ariel takes a shaky breath, like he's barely holding it together. "You better kill me before I get you," he hisses.

"_Get _me?" Luther repeats. "Not just kill? I'm intrigued. Tell me more. What does that mean?"

He doesn't answer.

Hmm.

She smiles like a shark. "Not going to sink to my level, are you?"

_Hmm. _This is… really quite a lot. If I were a better person, I'd turn on her right now. But while I could maybe, _maybe _bring myself to just shoot Luther, then what? I cold-bloodedly execute Ariel while he's lying there in handcuffs? But I can't just let him go, either; I've got to be number two on his hit list already, and as bad as Luther is, the absolute, homicidal rage glittering in his eyes and the fact that he threatened her with worse-than-death for whatever it is she did tells me that perhaps I don't want him loose in the Arena.

"You've got morals. Right?" she goes on. "Speaking of which, whose blood is that you're covered in?"

"Look, can you just do whatever you've got in mind so we can both get on with our day?" he spits.

"If you insist. Kaya?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This evil henchwoman thing is really going too far. But I do it anyway, dragging him to his feet. He doesn't even try to run. Maybe he'd be faster usually, but no one's quick with their hands cuffed behind their back.

Luther gestures at the lattice of bars across the tunnel opposite the security station. The far side of them is too dark to see anything. She holds a pistol against his jaw delicately as I undo one of the cuffs, slip the chain around the bar, and clip it shut again.

He blinks. "Is this it?"

"Well, there's this," Luther says, pulling a metal box from her pocket and plucking a silvery little cylinder from it.

"What is it?"

"I don't know," she says cheerfully, holding it near the Geiger counter. The little flashing light goes crazy. "But I don't think it's very good for you."

Ariel turns pale. "Luther–"

Luther drops the cylinder down his boot. "There. Far from the most radiation-sensitive part of you, right? And I'm sure you can get it out eventually. It'll just take a bit of… dancing."

If looks could kill.

Luther smiles and plants a delicate kiss on the tip of his nose. He snarls and tries to headbutt her in the face, but isn't quick enough. I'm disappointed; I was definitely rooting for him on that one.

"So there's that," she goes on. "And there's this."

Even I almost have a heart attack when she suddenly raises the gun again, the muzzle right in Ariel's face. He chokes on his breath.

"Oh, wait, no. Before that, one more thing." She pulls a scrap of cloth from her pocket and blindfolds him.

"Really?" he mutters. "What the fuck is this for, aesthetic?"

"I've got my reasons. Remember this?" Luther smiles, shoving the gun against his jaw again and forcing his head back.

"… Yeah, I remember that."

_Bang._

Ariel half-collapses. For a second I think she's killed him even though it doesn't make sense. From the look on his face, Ariel thinks the same.

"W-Why did you…?" he gasps.

I could ask the same question. What was the point of that, firing through the bars over his head? Now anyone nearby knows where we are.

"Shh," Luther says softly. "The blindfold is so you can hear better. Which might actually be an urban legend, but it's worth a shot. No pun intended. Now listen, darling."

He opens his mouth to protest the pet name, but he must forget about it when he hears the same thing I do. Something moving in the darkness behind him. He tries to twist around to look at it, but of course he can't see anything anyway.

But I can. Luther shines a flashlight through the bars, presumably for my edification. There are pale, black-eyed monsters slinking around out there. Prowling closer.

"Watch your hands," Luther advises.

Ariel jerks away from the bars, teeth snapping right where his fingers were a moment before.

"Luther…" There's a distinct note of pleading in his voice.

"Yes?"

He gulps and grits his teeth, then yelps when a pale arm wraps around his neck and pulls him back against the bars, teeth snapping inches from his ear. The monsters can't quite bite him, but he'll have a hard time keeping them from getting his hands. If they're smart enough to grab the chain of the handcuffs and pull his arms through… yikes.

"I've seen a few on this side of the bars, too," Luther remarks offhandedly, gathering up our stuff and his. "So no more loud noises, I guess."

Ariel is trying to stay calm, but he's practically hyperventilating. "Luther, come on, this is…"

"I'm leaving the keys on a nail on this wall right over here. If anyone comes by, you can ask them for help. You're good at convincing people to help you, right? You've got so much to bargain with."

"What did I _do?" _he protests. His voice sounds about to crack. "What the hell did I ever fucking do to you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Bye."

"Luther!"

"Shh, no loud noises, remember?"

"… Kaya?" he says plaintively.

He's almost my age, but in the moment he sounds younger. And terrified. I can tell from his voice that there are tears in his eyes. It gets to me, making my stomach do a funny little flip.

But not enough to make me cross Luther when she's staring right at me, something very dangerous in her face. I hope she didn't see me hesitate.

I pick up the rest of our stuff and follow Luther down the tunnel, stepping over the tripwire carefully. I feel guilty, but his death can't be that much worse than anyone else's will be. Right? Besides, he's not so innocent himself; there was blood on his face from whoever _he _killed.

"Why _did_ you do that?" I ask once we're out of earshot.

She laughs brightly. "He'll be fine. He's too much of a crowd favorite to die on day two. The Gamemakers will get him out of it somehow even, if he can't get out himself."

"Huh. Why not kill him, then? I'm pretty sure he'll kill us if he can."

She smiles. "Because if there's one thing they like more than Ariel, it's Ariel being terrorized. Did you hear him just now? As long as we deliver that, _we're_ crowd favorites. They love to hate us, I'm sure, but we're giving them exactly what they want and they love us for it." She thought for a moment. "Well, almost exactly. There's room for improvement, but we've got time."

"That's pretty messed up."

"I didn't make the game," she shrugs. "I'm just playing it as well as I know how. If he can use his, ahem, charisma, then so can I."

"I guess so."

"Besides, he's more fun if he's angry."

"… Fun?"

She shrugs.

I don't think I'll ever understand Luther, except one thing: whenever it seems like she can't get any weirder and scarier, she does.

"Damn," she sighs. "I should've taken his coat. Oh well. Next time."

Case in point.

**Ceci n'est pas meta**


	32. Ten-Car Pileup

**The theme song of this chapter is Yakety Sax.**

**Ted Walsh, District Six, 17**

Atlas is one quiet dude. Was he this gloomy during training and stuff? But he's decently big and doesn't seem to have any immediate plans to murder me, so I'm not going to give him a hard time for bringing down the mood. Not that I'm so cheerful myself; I'm hungry, thirsty, and cold, plus there's the perpetual threat of death. Not the best.

And Jukai. It doesn't help anyone for me to beat myself up about it and I know it, but I can't help thinking it's my fault he's dead. If I'd taken the half-second to calm down, look around, and figure out what was going on, we could've been down those hatches before anyone else. But no, I had to run off in completely the wrong direction, and he, earnest, well-meaning dumbass that he is, stood there yelling after me instead of getting the hell out of there and hoping I'd figure it out on my own.

I'm still amazed I didn't get trapped out there. I don't think Reyna is _evil, _exactly, but I have no doubt that she believes I deserve to die. Me and everyone else in here, except her.

I grilled her about it on the train. Insisted that I'd never done anything wrong, certainly nothing to warrant this, so how could she justify my death? What about that thirteen-year-old girl, or the little Eleven boy? But she wouldn't budge. The Capitol is good, therefore if it says we deserve to die, we must deserve to die. If the Capitol kills only those who deserve to die, it must be good.

I pointed out that it was the most circular logic in the history of the universe. She glared at me so hard I thought she'd toss me out the window.

Then, of course, I asked if she thought _she _deserved to die. She just shrugged and said she didn't think so, but if she _did _die, it must mean she'd done something wrong and just not known about it. I asked if you could really deserve death for a crime you could commit without even knowing about it. She rolled her eyes and patiently explained, again, that the Capitol knows exactly what it's doing. I gave up right around then.

Atlas and I have been wandering around the hallways of this floor pretty much since we ran into each other, except when we stopped in one of the vault thingies to sleep. That's the thing: you either sleep in the open, or you corner yourself. And I kept expecting the door to just close on its own, sealing us in there. I'm sure the Gamemakers could've done it if they wanted. I just had to promise myself they wouldn't kill us off in such as "boring" way.

This whole place is beyond claustrophobic. I really, really don't want to die down here. I at least wish I'd gotten one last look at a clear sky the night before, and known to appreciate it.

"Where are we going, anyway?" Atlas says.

"This floor has a lot of research stuff, it seems like. I'm hoping there's a jug of distilled water or whatever around here. Tell me if you see any labs."

"I can barely see anything."

We finally find our way into a slightly better-lit area of the Arena. Slightly. Most of the lights are burned out, and the ones still working are really struggling for it.

"Where are we?"

"Four floors down. The ladder I took is maybe half a mile in that direction," I say, pointing. "Dunno where you came from."

"How do you know that?"

"I dunno. Just guessing, I guess. But I think I passed three hatches in the wall on the way down the ladder, so I'm assuming those were all floors."

"Guess that explains it. I was about to ask, where _is _everyone?"

Right on cue, Reyna comes flying out of the darkness straight at me, even more crazy-eyed than usual, holding a chunk of rock. Before I can do much more than raise my arm, she crashes into me hard enough to knock me over. I scramble to get my bearings back and dodge the inevitable blow.

It doesn't come. She sprints away down the tunnel.

I stay on the ground where I landed, square on my rear. "… What?"

"Get up," Atlas says, looking in the direction she came from uneasily. "She was running from something."

I stumble to my feet. "I don't hear– Oh, there it is. Time to go."

We take off after Reyna. And soon we find everyone.

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

I know as soon as I see Ash's face that Jaiven is dead. It hits me harder than I expected. I considered him a friend, and that's on top of the nasty feeling that his death is bad news for me. All of us, really. He held us together. Now what?

"What was it?" I ask.

Ash gulps. "I don't know. I guess the thing the girls saw."

"Did you see it?"

"Just… it was black. Reached down and grabbed him and… gone."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Told you," Merona mutters.

I expect Ash to give her a dirty look, but he just shakes his head. "I know. I told him not to go in. It just… felt like a bad idea."

"Well, now we know," she says brightly. "Hopefully a few more tributes will go down there and get eaten, or dismembered, or whatever."

"Hopefully no one will let it _out," _I say, more to myself than them, but both of them tense.

"You think it might come out?" Merona says slowly.

"How should I know?"

We sit around in awkward silence. No one suggests leaving, because that would mean leaving someone alone. We'll have to figure out a new strategy now that we've only got two groups to work with. I still can't wrap my mind around it; I keep expecting him to walk in the door. What is it, day two? And the leader of the Careers dead. It's a game changer, that's for sure.

The Fours clatter in an hour or so later. Amaris is waving something big and bulky around, almost smacking Woohyun with it every few seconds. "What in the living fuckity is this?" she rants.

Merona sits up. "What?" she yawns.

"This! We were walking and it fell on me!"

Merona scoots over to study the doll, frowning and taking a good look at its insane grin. "Wow, that's just… not necessary."

"Where's Jaiven?"

"Dead," Merona says brightly.

Amaris blinks. "Wait, for real?"

"For real. The Thing got him when he went after the Geiger counter."

"I knew it. See? What did I say?" Amaris sniffs.

Woohyun rolls his eyes. "Everything, probably."

"Fight me, bitch."

Ash is still on the ground, looking thoroughly defeated. Merona seems absolutely delighted with the chaos. I guess this is my problem now. I'm going to take a leaf out of the Jaiven book of leadership and leave the Fours alone.

Scheduling is going to be a lot more complicated. But if I leave three people here, two can sleep while the third takes watch. I'm banking on the sleepers getting up fast enough to help if something happens, and the guard not murdering them. Everyone but Woohyun is trained to go from fast asleep to fighting in two seconds, but I'm not so confident about the non-murder part. Best we can do, though.

"Ash, are you good to go out again? The other three can switch off sleeping and keeping watch."

Ash grabs his crossbow. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just… needed a minute there."

"Good. Let's go hunt, then."

Ash isn't such a bad companion. He's sane enough, anyway, and I trust his abilities in a fight, but I miss the quiet conversations with Jaiven. I'm sure the Capitol gossiped about us plenty, but it wasn't like that. He was an interesting, smart, good guy, that's all.

We turn a corner and Ash holds out a hand. I stop, keeping silent until I see what he sees. A silhouetted figure standing just beyond a lattice of bars. Ash raises the crossbow, aims, and fires. An almighty screech echoes through the tunnel and the figure doubles over.

Ash makes a perfect _oh shit _face. "Was that…?"

"I think maybe…?" I say.

"_You assholes!" _the figure screams.

Yep, that's Ariel, all right.

"Oops," Ash says guiltily.

We run up the tunnel. Ariel is still silhouetted, but in the blue light I see something glistening on his leg. I think the bolt is stuck in his thigh. He might live if it missed the artery. Maybe.

"Don't pull it out!" I yell.

"I _c-can't_ pull it out, I-I'm cuffed to the…" He trails off with a sharp gasp. "Oh, no."

"What is it?"

"Amelia."

It's the low, tight tone that means something is imminently, disastrously wrong. I run faster. And then faster still when I see the tall, bony silhouettes prowling toward him, on his side of the bars. They're attracted to sound. Shit.

_"__Amelia!" _he screams, cowering away from the closest one. The sound of it, anyway; he's blindfolded. What on earth? Who did this?

The first monster and I reach him at the same time. I ram my sword through the bars, taking the monster through the skull, its teeth an inch from his throat. They're awfully fragile, I observe, although still horrifying. The second monster falls to Ash's bolt, but more are coming.

"How many more shots do you have?" I ask.

"Ten."

"Try to find a way around," I say hurriedly, lunging to stab another monster.

"And do what? He's still cuffed."

"T-There's a key," Ariel grits out. "On a nail on the wall."

Ash frowns and takes aim again. "Why the hell did whoever it was leave the–?"

"_Go, _Ash."

He huffs, nods, and takes off into the darkness. I wonder if he'll ever come back.

It's a good point. Between that and the blindfold, this is all way too deliberate. Some kind of trap? For whom? Us?

I finally remember I have guns, which makes this a little easier. Ariel yelps and goes limp at the first shot. Whoops. Guess I should've warned him. I barely catch him before he falls far enough to pull the cuffs taut and break his wrists, wrapping an arm around his chest and holding the monsters off with the other. How long has he been here? His coat is unbuttoned, and this is the coldest part of the Arena I've been in so far. I feel no body heat whatsoever, which could mean his clothes are well insulated, or that he's closer to dead than I thought.

The monsters are getting more careful. There are maybe eight of them by now, skulking around where I can't quite get a clear shot at them.

"Motherfucker," Ariel says weakly. Not quite dead, then. Just really jumpy. Still, I've never seen anyone react like that to a gunshot. What the hell happened to him?

And _where _is Ash?

Like they've planned it, half the monsters lunge at once. Ariel hears them coming and yells. I have no choice but to drop him and draw my sword again, shooting with one hand and stabbing with the other. Lucky for him I'm coordinated. I leave the sword and impaled monster where they are, providing something like a buffer on his left.

I use the next lull to pull the blindfold off. It seems like a nice thing to do, but the first thing he sees is the dead monster frozen with its teeth three inches from his nose. He screams. Again.

"It's dead."

"… Fuck," he squeaks, staring into its black-hole eyes.

"Sorry."

"D-Don't apologize. You're my favorite person right now."

Aw.

Then, as often happens in the Hunger Games, things start to happen very quickly.

A pretty big, older girl—I think District Six—comes flying into the intersection from the tunnel to the right. Literally flying, tripping over something and soaring through the air before crashing headlong into a monster.

"Careful," Ariel advises dreamily. Getting a little loopy from blood loss, I guess.

The girl makes a choked noise and whomps the monster in the face with a rock she was carrying, scrambling to her feet.

I point the gun at her. "Toss me those and I won't kill you," I say, pointing at the keys hanging from the nail, just out of my reach.

The girl stares at me. Before she can respond, two boys come out of nowhere and wipe out on the tripwire. One just faceplants, but the other unintentionally tackles the girl to the ground. Even the monsters look confused by the sudden ten-car pileup happening in the intersection.

"Can… can someone hand me the keys, though? Please?" I say, waving the gun helplessly.

The monsters remember they're monsters and attack. One of the boys has a knife and attacks right back. The unarmed one with the ponytail sort of dances in a circle, dodging a snapping monster. The girl is just standing there with her rock, wide-eyed, her expression somewhere between anger and total confusion.

Suddenly, Fenris.

The wolfman arrives on the scene like a bowling ball to the end of the lane. Monsters and tributes go flying. Ariel sighs dreamily, then screams for the fourth time in as many minutes when a monster is somehow launched from the fray directly at him. I barely pull myself together in time to shoot it, shattering its skull. Nothing I can do to stop it from hitting him, though; its momentum sends it straight into his gut. It hits the crossbow bolt still lodged in his leg as it falls. This time he just gasps. I don't have to see how much he's bleeding; I can smell it. He's running out of time.

Should I shoot? Who should I shoot? I have no idea. If Ash gets lost, I need to convince someone to throw me the keys. Except Ariel will still be stuck over there; there's no way he can walk. Might as well get them myself. So all I can do is keep him alive until either Ash gets here or the fight is over. Who's the biggest threat? The tributes are dangerous, but they're also killing the monsters, and I've only got so many bullets to hold them off from over here, so…?

I can't even tell what's going on at this point. The girl seems to be back-to-back with the dark-haired boy with the knife, even though I feel like they shouldn't be getting along. More monsters are flooding in from the tunnel across from me. Ariel is shrieking something at the top of his lungs, seemingly just for the sake of adding to the chaos.

_Twang. _A monster falls with a crossbow bolt through its chest.

Ash sprints out of the tunnel opposite the tripwire. I can just hear the heroic music playing on TV sets all over Panem; he's even got the blond hair and roguish scars for it. All the other tributes but Fenris take that as their cue to vacate the premises. The girl hurdles the tripwire and flees back into the darkness, and the boys take off past the security booth. Fenris and Ash glance at each other and seem to arrive at a mutual understanding: monsters first, then we'll see.

I contribute a few bullets to the mop-up effort. Soon the intersection is empty except for dead monster bodies, one big guy, one gigantic one, and one cowering skinny one mumbling what sounds like _I need a hug_. The best I can do is a reassuring pat on the shoulder through the bars. He jumps a mile. Well, I tried.

Ash and Fenris face each other down. Fenris snarls and raises a length of pipe.

_Twang._

"Sorry," Ash shrugs, keeping the crossbow up warily. "Love and war, you know?"

Fenris stares at him for a second, perfectly still. I wait for him to fall. There's a crossbow bolt buried in his chest, after all.

He runs, sprinting past the security booth.

"What the-?" Ash splutters. By the time it occurs to him to shoot again, Fenris is too far away; the shot misses him by a mile. It doesn't occur to _me _to shoot until he's around the corner. Oh well.

"Keys," I prompt Ash.

Ash stands there for a few more seconds with his jaw dropped, but then shakes himself out of it and tosses them to me.

"Hold him up," I say.

"I can stand," Ariel insists, then promptly collapses against Ash as soon as I let him go.

"If you say _anything _weird_, _I swear I will drop you," Ash mutters as he picks Ariel up and jogs into the tunnel. Hopefully he won't run into anything.

I circle around to meet them. "Ariel, you still alive?"

He cracks one eye open. "Still? Am I dying?"

"Um…"

I'm not sure what to say. He _might _not be. But his skin is dead pale and sweaty despite his shivering, he's breathing way too fast, and his whole leg is soaked in blood. It's a miracle he's as lucid as he is.

"But I'm too beautiful to bleed out!" he wails.

Then again, lucidity is relative.

"Okay. Calm down," I say in my best soft, nice voice. "Don't get your heart rate up. Oh, and whatever Amaris says or does, ignore her."

"I try to."

"Don't we all," Ash mutters.

**How things stand:**

**Amelia, Ash, Merona, Amaris, Woohyun, Ariel: base on Floor Five**

**Des, Castalia, Felicity: Floor Two**

**Atlas and Ted: Floor Two**

**Viss and Luka: Floor Three**

**Luther and Kaya: ?**

**Reyna: Floor Two**

**Fenris: Floor Two**

**Lillen: Floor Four**

**Caddis: ?**


	33. Spider Monkey

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

"Luka?"

"Yes?"

"Stop beatboxing before I knock you out."

"You wouldn't knock me out. I'm too fuckin' adorable."

Viss sighs irritably. "Don't rub it in."

I make an honest effort to knock it off, channeling my energy into a jaunty little two-step instead. But I keep tripping over my own feet—the boots are kinda big—so I start tapping out a beat on the railing instead.

"Luka?"

"Yes?"

"You see that bottomless pit?"

I lean over the railing, taking a good look at the blackness below. "I do see it, yeah."

"How easily do you think I could throw you in there?"

"Uh… pretty easily, I bet."

"Do you see where I'm going with this?"

"I think I might. Hey, you hear something?"

She frowns. "Yeah."

It's a distant, muffled screech. Then, a few seconds later, what sounds suspiciously like a voice yelling _you assholes._

I blink. "Language."

"You've dropped at least five f-bombs within the last five minutes."

"Yeah, well."

At first I think it's coming from the pit, but after a second I realize it's echoing from the tunnel across the pit from us a floor down. There's more screaming. And then some more. Not scared, pained screaming. More just a general clamor, like a crowd of drunk Peacekeepers trying to arrest each other after their shifts.

Huh.

I glance up and jump a little when I find what looks like the silhouette of someone looking down from two floors up. I squint. Yep, definitely a person. I give a little half-wave, figuring they'll see it if they already saw me, but it won't get their attention if not.

There's a pause, then the person waves back bemusedly. I think I can make out Asian features. The Four boy.

"Hey, Viss, I know where the Careers are."

"Where?"

"Right there."

She swears and whips out a knife before realizing where I'm pointing. "Oh."

"Hey!" the Four guy calls down.

"Hello," I yell back cheerfully. "How are-? Mmph," I sigh as Viss claps a hand over my mouth.

"The monsters are attracted to sound," she hisses.

"Aw, c'mon, we can totally take monsters."

"Don't tempt the Gamemakers."

Another figure leans over the edge of the top floor, this one with long red hair. "Who's…? Oh."

I give her a friendly wave.

"C'mon," Viss mutters, tugging me away from the railing. "We need to go be somewhere else. They might come down here."

"Oh. Hmm. Yeah. Have we gone in that tunnel yet? That one looks nice."

She gives me a long, unreadable look. "Okay."

"It does," I say defensively. "The concrete is so smooth. The lights almost work, kinda. Some nice pipes up there. What a nice shade of grey they're painted. What more can you ask for?"

"Shh," Viss cuts me off, snapping into ninja mode again. I glance around dubiously. I didn't hear anything, but I'll take her word for it.

She keeps walking.

"Nothing?"

"Can't tell which direction it was from, so we might as well go this way. But it was something."

"Oh."

Something hits me on the top of the head. Something with metal parts heavy enough to make a solid _clunk _while doing it.

"Ow," I mutter, leaning down to pick the thing up. It's a… doll? Wearing a bow. What?

There's a sound above me like a power tool rasping to life. Viss's eyes widen. Uh-oh.

Something lands on my shoulders like a ton of bricks, knocking me to the ground on my face and cracking my head against the concrete. I see a flash of blond hair, and… a power drill. It's cordless. Technology is amazing these days; I didn't know they made those. I should get one for Dad.

"I never said you could touch Flounder," a voice whispers in my ear. Caddis. The sound of the drill get a tiny bit quieter, like he's raising it to stab me with. I should do something, but my muscles won't listen.

I vaguely register Viss charging, head down, teeth bared. She's not quite fast enough. There's split second of burning pain on my shoulder blade, then Viss hits Caddis like a freight train and the drill rips down my back. Well, she tried.

It doesn't hurt. That'll come, I'm sure. I spend a few seconds lying there in shock before it sinks in that I'm not dead.

Viss's angry yell prompts me to get up. I turn to find her and Caddis wrestling down the hallway. He's got his teeth around her knife wrist. She has a hand on the power drill, but he's got two. The situation plays out in my head: their tumble ending with Viss on her back, Caddis with the drill over her heart, with the perfect leverage to drive it down between her ribs.

The emotion I feel is a new one. It's not quite fear or anger. More of a pure, concentrated, all-consuming impulse of _absolutely not._

I run at him, forgetting everything but the situation at hand. Viss does end up on her back. Now Caddis is kneeling, crouched over her, raising the drill. They're too low for me to tackle him off her. He'd have plenty of time to kill her before I could get the drill away from him. So I do the only thing I can: I throw myself to the ground next to them and use my momentum to stab him in the gut hard enough to lift him off the ground.

Caddis slumps to the side. Viss is left holding the still-running drill, its tip an inch from her chest. Her expression is as blank as ever.

I scramble around her to Caddis, my heart sinking. I didn't just stab him. I _cut him open_. His wide grey eyes are looking right through me.

"C-Caddis?" I say shakily.

Viss turns the drill off. The hallway is suffocatingly quite without it. "Luka…"

"No, I didn't _mean _to," I protest. "I just…"

Caddis is shivering. There's blood on his lips. He looks scared. He's dying, bleeding out, his lungs shutting down, and it's my fault. I reached into those systems that made him go and tore them apart and soon his brain is going to run out of oxygen and shut down and his consciousness will be gone forever and it's all my fault. I'm no better than him and I just… made him go away. Stop being.

"I'm sorry, Caddis, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, please don't… Caddis, no, no no no no _please_–" My voice cracks.

I feel sick. I can't stand how scared and alone he looks. I scramble across the hallway for the doll and tuck it into his arms.

"There's Flounder, you've got Flounder back, okay? I'm sorry, Caddis, I'm so, so sorry."

"Luka, he's dead."

"But…"

"I know you didn't mean to, okay?" she says quietly. "It's not your fault. Come here."

"I can't just–"

"You have to leave him. Come in this room, okay? So I can look at your back."

I don't move, but Viss grabs me and hauls me to my feet. Much more gently than usual, like she'd rather hug me than push me around. I vaguely register myself being steered into a little room off the hallway, I think storage or something.

It hits me all at once that I've lost quite a bit of blood and I think I've got a concussion. I stare at the wall numbly as Viss works my jacket and shirt off.

I killed someone. I _murdered _someone.

It's freezing and I start shivering instantly. Viss spreads her own coat on the concrete floor and guides me onto it. She covers as much bare skin as she can with my shirt and coat, but the cut runs from one shoulder to the opposite hip. My shoulder just feels cold. I think it's cut to the bone. The rest isn't deep, but it's torn and jagged, and now the pain is starting to hit me and I might scream.

"This will hurt," Viss warns. I smell antiseptic.

"It already hurts."

"It'll hurt more."

It does. She has to hold me down for a second. I don't bother trying to be tough and stoic; I'm long since past that point. This hurts more than anything that's ever happened to me, which is saying something, and _I killed someone._

"It's okay," Viss says, her voice soft, but as godawfully flat as ever. Suddenly I can't stand it. I need her to not be a robot for five fucking minutes so she can… I'm not sure what, exactly. Witness this. So someone really, truly understands that all I wanted was to stop her from dying. Not to kill anyone, just like _they _knew I would do, even though I never, ever, in my wildest nightmares, dreamed that they could make me. I thought at least I could die without blood on my hands. I thought I had control over that. Wrong. I'm all theirs. I am what they say I am, whatever they decide to make me into, and I'm starting to think I'd rather be dead.

My vision is blurry again. Both tears and injuries, I think. Without really meaning to, I grab Viss's hand. Now both of our hands are bloody. How fucking poetic.

"He wasn't going to win," she says as she drips antiseptic onto what feels like my exposed shoulder blade. "And he was gone within ten seconds. Easy death. You didn't do anything wrong."

"You don't care." It's a statement, not an accusation.

"About you?"

"You don't care he's dead. Do you?"

She doesn't even hesitate. "I'm happy he's dead. He had to die. I wish you hadn't been the one to kill him, because it made you sad, and I don't want you to be sad. That's how I feel about this."

"That's it?"

"That's it," she says firmly, pulling a roll of gauze from the backpack, but there's something false in her voice.

"No, it isn't."

As soon as I look up, I regret saying it. I forgot something from the Reaping: Viss isn't emotionless. She's angry. And how she was at the Reaping is nothing compared to now. It's pent-up, only visible in the tightness of her jaw and something in her eyes, but out of nowhere I'm downright scared of her.

I flinch a little. "I'm sorry, I just–"

She pulls her hand from mine. There's a blur of movement and her teeth flash again.

_Thud._

I shift so I can lift my head in the other direction. Her knife is buried in a plastic box on the shelf. When I look back at Viss, for a second I think she's about to cry, but then her face goes neutral again.

"Sorry," I say again. "I didn't mean to…"

She takes a deep breath, then shakes her head. "No, I'm not mad at you. Sorry for… yeah."

"It's okay."

Viss returns her attention to my back, pressing harder than I think she meant to. I can't bite back a gasp.

"Sorry!" she says.

"I'm okay."

She takes a deep breath and runs her fingers through my hair, the gesture tentative and exploratory. For a second I'm just stunned. It's the most affectionate thing she's done, by an order of magnitude. So I'll take this. I'll _cling _to this.

"I'm really sorry," she says, almost too quietly to hear. "That you had to do that for me."

"I'd do it again."

"… Thanks."

She dabs at my back with one hand, keeping her free one in my hair. My mind goes back to Caddis as soon as we stop talking, but it helps a little. I killed him, but I did it for her. I'm the Capitol's toy, but I'm not alone. And maybe they don't quite understand what they're playing with.


	34. The Pit

**This is happening at roughly the same time as the Yakety Sax incident, fyi. Also, warning for blood and gore and all that, although honestly if you hate blood I'm not sure what you're doing reading an M-rated Hunger Games fic.**

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

"We have to do something," I say as we plod up the tunnel.

Felicity blinks. "Okay. Something specific you had in mind?"

"Just… something. We need sponsors. That's the only way we're going to get medicine."

"Nothing dangerous," Castalia says quietly. She's limping badly, but not complaining.

"It'll have to be. That's all they're interested in. Plus, I mean… we're not going to win the Games by hiding. They haven't let that happen in decades."

_We, _I think wryly. _We _aren't going to win the Games, period, but no one says that out loud.

Castalia gives me an appalled look. "Are you saying we should try to kill someone?"

I shrug, because that's exactly what I'm saying, but I don't want to say it out loud.

"But…"

"I think she's right," Felicity breaks in. "We have to play the game, or they'll take us out of it. But we've barely even got weapons."

Finding food in the Arena turns out to be pretty easy—there are packets of preserved fruit and stuff scattered around—but weapons are trickier. Real weapons, anyway. There's plenty of stuff to improvise with. Felicity's got a wrench from the lab, Castalia found a ring stand with a sharp, heavy base, and I've got a piece of metal pipe. A monster attacked us right after we left the lab and we managed to whomp it to death without getting bitten, but I'm not sure a person will go down as easily.

"Des, I can't kill an innocent person," Castalia says.

"What if they're not innocent?"

Now it's Felicity's turn to balk. "What, are you saying we should go after the Careers?"

"Well… it'd be really dangerous. But it would get the Capitol's attention, and it's the last thing the Careers would expect."

"Des. They've got _guns."_

I point over her shoulder. "So do we."

"What…?"

Castalia and Felicity spin around to see what I just noticed: three pistols, just lying there on the concrete.

Felicity frowns. "Those weren't there before. Right?"

"I don't think so."

"No parachutes in this Arena, I guess… huh."

"That means they want us to do it," I point out, picking up one of the pistols.

"Just because they want us to doesn't mean we should."

"They're sending us a pretty clear message. Do it, and they'll give us the medicine. And even if they don't, I bet the Careers have medical supplies."

Castalia winces. "That _still _doesn't mean we should."

"They won't appreciate it if we don't, though, now that I brought it up. Um… sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it," Felicity says, although something in her face tells me she actually thinks I should worry about it quite a bit. She takes a pistol and inspects it. "I think you're right, though. We've got no choice. Okay. So. Is that what's happening, then?"

Castalia makes a noise along the lines of _eep._

"C'mon, Cas, we're not going to die," I say. "And I'm not doing nothing while you die, either."

She takes a deep breath. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

Felicity fiddles with her pistol until she manages to pull the magazine out and slide it back in. So they're loaded, but we only get ten rounds each. She's frowning like she's crunching through an intense calculation, brown eyes narrowed.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I think… I'm not doing this."

"What?"

"I'm leaving. Sorry."

I'm stunned. "But… what?"

"You're not going to beat them," she says, shaking her head. "Not even with guns. They're more alert than you. They're better shots. If you go up there, they're going to kill you."

"But Castalia will die if we don't," I say in disbelief. "Felicity, it's the right thing to do."

She won't meet my eyes. "Not if I want to survive."

Without another word, she turns and walks back the way we came. Castalia and I watch her go numbly. We could shoot her in the back, but we won't and she knows it. It's not until she's long gone that I realize she took the backpack Atlas left us.

Castalia looks like she might cry. "I-I didn't mean for…"

"What? You didn't do anything."

"But… we're only doing this because of me."

"You didn't exactly go out of your way to get bitten by a monster, though."

I can't believe I didn't see that coming. In retrospect, I should've known. Felicity's never been the one to go first into a dark tunnel or offer either of us the first sip from a new bottle of water. I trusted her way too much, assuming she'd risk her life for us just like we would for her. But I can't get angry. She's not a bad person. She never hurt us and I can tell she felt awful about leaving. She probably could've taken us by surprise and shot us both just now, but she didn't. She just wants to live, and she's doing her best to make that happen.

"Guess we might as well go," I say, handing Castalia the other pistol. "You know how to use that?"

"I went to the station in training," she says morosely. She closes her eyes and winces every step on the way up the stairs. It shores up my conviction that we have to do something and we have to do it now. My guess is that the Careers have left two people as guards. A two-on-two firefight is worse odds than I'd like, but it's not impossible, especially when they don't expect us. If we wait, Castalia won't be able to walk, and I'd have to leave her somewhere while I went alone.

We reach the top floor, where we heard the Careers' voices echoing down the pit a while ago. I take my best guess at the tunnel that leads to the center of the Arena.

"So we just run in and start shooting?" Castalia says.

"I think it's our best chance."

The doorway is up ahead, light spilling out from it, total darkness farther on. I have to resist the urge to rush this just because I hate the dark so much. I keep imagining noises from it, things moving…

We creep up to the doorway as quietly as we can. I don't hear anything. It's no guarantee, but maybe it means there's only one guard.

"Des…" Castalia whispers.

I know what she wants to say. What are the odds that we won't be shot dead as soon as we round that corner? Why did I ever think this was a good idea?

But it's all we can do. Either we get the Careers' first aid supplies, or we impress the sponsors enough for them to send medicine, or Castalia dies. Horribly. I don't want to watch the infection spread through her and I absolutely, positively don't want to put myself in the position of having to deal out a mercy kill. I'd rather run headfirst into the Careers than do that.

"We'll be okay," I whisper back.

Castalia gulps and nods. We clasp hands for a second, then straighten up, glance at each other, and charge into the room.

Lights. Pit. Supplies. Boy. The Four boy, leaning against the wall half-asleep, his rifle across his lap. I realize in a split second that I don't have what it takes to kill him and there's no way Castalia does either.

"Push it away!" I yell at him, praying he'll do it. If he tries to point it at us, I _will _shoot him.

The boy's head snaps up, wide-eyed. He puts the rifle down slowly and slides it a few feet away. Closer than I'd like, but I'm not having him touch it again.

"Watch him," I mutter to Castalia. I snatch the rifle, then run over to their supplies and tear through them, searching for anything like a first aid kit.

"Des," Castalia's voice says. She sounds more sad than scared, but my heart sinks. Something in her tone tells me that it's all gone horribly wrong.

I look up slowly and find the beautiful blue eyes of the Two girl looking back at me. So I really _was _hearing something out there in the hallway. She's holding Castalia in front of her, gripping the wrist of her gun hand so the pistol is pointed at the wall. I can't shoot without hitting Castalia. But if she kills Castalia, I'll kill her.

She doesn't have a gun of her own, I note. I guess this isn't like most years where the Careers have unlimited supplies. They only have what they carried down here.

I risk a glance at the Four boy. He hasn't moved from the ground by the wall.

The Two girl smiles at me and starts dragging Castalia in the direction of the pit, still using her as a shield. Castalia is frozen. I'm not much better off.

"I'll shoot you," I warn. My hands are shaking so much I'm not sure I can make good on my threat even if I find the guts to pull the trigger. "Let her go and I promise I won't."

She laughs. "Mm, that's sweet. But…"

Something grabs my gun arm from behind. The Four boy.

"… No you won't," the Two girl smirks, and pushes Castalia into the pit.

_Bang. _I didn't mean to pull the trigger. I don't think I hit the boy, but he isn't holding me anymore. I sprint to the edge of the pit. Castalia's echoing scream drills into my head.

There's a distant splashing sound, muted, like a liquid much thicker than water. I think I see the slightest glimmer of light at the bottom of the pit, like the surface of something has been disturbed. Castalia's screams get louder and sharper, morphing from shock and fear to agony. I'm going to throw up. This can't be happening. I did this.

In some corner of my brain that isn't panicking, I see something else: two tall girls by the railing on the third floor. The shorter-haired one—District Five—studies the blackness below for a moment, then looks up at me and smiles. I scramble away from the edge.

"Oh, wow," the Two girl says. "I didn't know _that _was how it worked."

I should shoot her. Right in her pretty face.

She looks up at me from partway across the pit, tilting her head. "So. Are you a killer?"

Maybe I am. Maybe I fucking am. I'm shaking with anger and shock. This time I remember to check on where the boy is. He's retreated back to the wall.

I raise the pistol. The girl raises her eyebrows.

If I pull this trigger and hit her, the bullet could split her skull. That beautiful face will become a bloody mess right in front of me. I'll see fragments of skull, with long red hair attached, tumble down into the pit. I'll see her brain before she tumbles headfirst over the edge. The boy might fight me and I'll have to kill him, too, but he won't fall in, so I'll be standing there with his dead body staring up at me.

Castalia is still screaming. A second later, she stops.

I run away.

**Not a good day for District Nine.**


	35. Boundaries

**This one's quite PG-13, specifically Woohyun and Ariel being alone in a room together and exactly what you'd expect to happen happening. TW for Woohyun being an insensitive, politically incorrect jackass about sexual assault, as Woohyun is wont to do. Actually, both of them being insensitive, politically incorrect jackasses. The views expressed by characters are emphatically not those of the author. So uh, tw fatphobia/body image too, because Ariel's a petty bastard. **

**AND FURTHERMORE I want to be clear that this is very much not how I see mlm in general, these two characters in particular are just… a very particular kind of way. There's just a whole lot going on in here, lol. And again, ceci n'est pas meta.**

**Woohyun Averi, District Four, 17**

"I'm hunting alone today," Amaris announces.

Everyone looks at Amelia to see how she'll react. She just frowns. "How come?"

"I feel like it."

Amelia considers that. "Whatever floats your boat. Merona and Ash can go together."

I think I spend more time on guard duty than off it, but I'm not going to argue. Fewer monsters on guard duty. Now and then one prowls in, but usually the real Career stuck with me takes care of it. How much longer can I last like that? Not that I care.

The hunters for the day roll out. I settle down by the wall, leaning against a backpack, wondering how this will play out. Clearly Ariel is trying to reel Amelia in. Little does he know he's in the company of a cockblocker extraordinaire.

I've got my work cut out for me. Amelia thinks she's holding him off, but it's obvious at a glance that he's got his claws in deep. She doesn't return any of his innuendo, although she doesn't seem bothered by it either, and barely reacts when he crashlands into her personal bubble. What she _does _do is much, much worse: get protective of him. I don't think she realizes she's doing it, but she glares at anyone who snaps at him and shoots him concerned looks when he flinches at something.

He flinches at a lot of things. I don't think he did that before and I don't think it's an act. A few loose wires since at least the Reaping video, sure, but something happened to him. He's a nervous wreck an inch under the surface.

I mean, _obviously_ something happened to him. They carried him in here unconscious with a crossbow bolt clean through his leg. But there's more to it than that.

"Fuck," Ariel announces from where he's sprawled out on his back in the middle of an otherwise-empty stretch of floor.

Amelia glances up. "What?"

"You people want me to build you a Geiger counter, right? I mean, I guess maybe you just wanted me around for my stunning good looks and charming personality, but somehow I doubt it."

"Oh," Amelia says. "Yeah, a Geiger counter would be good."

"I need stuff, then."

"Make a list. I'll run it out to whoever I can catch. Woohyun, try to not let anything kill the two of you in the next five minutes, okay?" she instructs, grabbing her sword and gun. "None of that fancy stuff you and Merona did yesterday. Just shoot anyone who comes in."

I throw a sloppy salute and coax a few metallic clicking noises from my rifle. "Ma'am, yes, ma'am."

Ariel scribbles a long, complicated list on the back of some kind of wrapper. Amelia scans it, nods, and jogs out into the hallway.

"Make sure they don't forget the argon tube! The argon tube is super important!" he yells after her. "But don't touch the top drawer, I rigged it to explode!"

The second Amelia is out of sight, Ariel turns into a different person. No more puppy-dog eyes and exhaustion. Plenty of bedroom eyes and pent-up energy. Which persona is his real self? Probably neither.

He regards me thoughtfully, giving me a crooked smile that conveys his intentions more clearly than words ever could. "So. I've been wondering if I'd ever get to speak to you alone."

"No way the Gamemakers would let us out of here without _speaking _to each other."

"We can't disappoint the Gamemakers."

"We certainly can't."

That's the nice thing about people who've been around the block a time or a thousand. Very few wasted words. Clear intentions. I get closer slowly enough to give him time to object if I'm misreading the situation somehow, but he smirks and pulls me down by my coat.

The thing about the Gamemakers is a serious consideration, actually, although it's not like I'd have turned him down outside the Games. Giving the audience what they want to see is a damn good way of convincing the Gamemakers to keep us around. So we're kissing for our lives, I guess.

Only he really seems to be. I do this kind of thing because why the hell not, and he really is pretty, so… sure, don't mind if I do. But Ariel kisses like a starved addict finally getting his fix. I have to forcibly break his grip on me before I can pull away.

Interesting. And a perfect starting point, because now it's time to do what I do best: see if I can dig up his deepest insecurities, worst memories, all that good stuff. Those loose wires I can feel sparking. I'm told that this should not be my first impulse upon meeting new people. I beg to differ. Life is so much more fun when you know how to make people cry.

"If you gained a hundred pounds, what would you be like?" I muse, settling down cross-legged beside where he's still lying on his back.

Ariel tenses. "Dead. Because I'd hurl myself off a building."

"Plenty of people are perfectly happy being a hundred pounds bigger than you."

"Fine. But I wouldn't be."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"That's awfully shallow, don't you think?"

He stretches languidly and gives me a sweet smile. "You may not have noticed this, darling, but I am in fact shallow. Because there's a word for people who aren't: ugly."

I consider that for a moment. "I don't think you really believe that. I think you're just trying to justify your self-esteem being one hundred percent based on your pretty face."

"Is not."

"No?"

"I have a great ass, too," he giggles. Actually, truly _giggles._

I stare at him. "Are you sober?"

"Not quite."

"What did you find?"

"Whatever this painkiller is. I took more while Amelia wasn't looking."

"You're fucked up."

"And it's not the kind that numbs you. I can still feel everything, pain just doesn't feel like pain," he smiles. "If you were wondering."

"How long have you done this?"

"Done what?"

"Acted like a trashy hooker."

He shrugs. "I don't know. A while."

"Did you go to clubs and get high and go home with random people when you were fifteen? Fourteen?"

"Sure."

"And that's never ended badly?"

His expression doesn't change. "What do _you_ think?"

He's got me on that one, slamming the ball neatly back into my court, and I remember too late what happened at his interview. I think I know the answer. "I don't know District Five."

"What's your point, though?" he yawns. "Concerned for my wellbeing? Wondering if karma's ever caught up with me for my sinful ways? Or you just like the idea of someone having their way with me?"

Yikes. Abort mission. Retreat. "I don't, and a psychologist would have a field day with you even saying that."

"Aw, you _do _care."

I laugh. "No. But I want to know. Is that really how you see yourself? Do you even have a personality, aside from being a whore?" That sort of name-calling is a little farther than I usually go, especially in that particular direction, _especially _after what's already been said, but I want to know how he'll respond.

"Sure I do, it's called 'vaguely unpleasant and increasingly annoyed'."

"You weren't this touchy before."

"What?"

"During training and stuff. You didn't mind people talking about you like that."

Ariel raises an eyebrow. "How long have you been waiting to call me all these names? If you want to talk dirty, just tell me. Only I think you've already exhausted every variation of 'prostitute.'"

"I've done no such thing, you strumpet."

"Touché."

"Harlot," I add. "Admittedly those are dated."

"Yep. Got it."

"Oh, fuck's sake, I forgot 'slut'. That one's so obvious."

He scowls. "Are you done?"

Hmm. Somewhere along the line, I actually hurt his feelings. What a pity.

"So, your parents," I begin. "Dead, permissive, or puritanical?"

Ariel smiles, and I can tell by the number of teeth in it that I won't like whatever's coming. "The last two at once, oddly. But if we're playing twenty questions, it's my turn," he says sweetly. "That scar on your neck. Looks like a knife. Why did someone try to kill you? Or was it you? Not sure you're worth it?"

I'm going to break his neck. Except I can't. I can't strangle him either; he's about my size and probably a little stronger. I look around to see where I left the rifle.

Ariel is still smiling. "Get the point?"

Okay, so maybe I won't kill him, but come to think of it I should be holding the rifle anyway. Guard duty and all that. "What?"

"Don't ask questions you know you shouldn't. Now we're even."

I return his grin tooth for tooth. "I don't want us to be even"

"No? Well, me neither," he says, hauling himself to his elbows. "So how about you–"

I push him back down. "Nope."

"What makes you think-?" he begins indignantly.

"Ariel, you faint when Fenris looks at you."

"Are you saying you'd say no to Fenris?"

"I… that's not the point."

"What's the point, then?"

"You know damn well what the point is."

"Do I?"

"I think you do."

I wonder how long we'll go back and forth before it dawns on him that he wants this to get physical way more than I do, and I'll happily bicker with him until the world ends. Not long, as it turns out.

"Fuck's sake, Woohyun, do something interesting or let me," he complains.

"That's not very polite."

"Fuck's sake, Woohyun, you smug, poncey damn bastard, do something interesting or let me, _if you would be so kind,_" Ariel says through gritted teeth.

I consider it, then nod. "A 'please' would've been nice–"

He gives me a _don't push it _glare.

"–But that'll do."

"Glad to hear it."

He still doesn't think I'm a force to be reckoned with, I can tell. He's humoring me, with every intention of taking over the second I falter. It doesn't bother me. Makes things more fun, actually. I just hope he likes surprises.

Ariel gives me a _well? _look.

I stare him down and put a hand on his thigh, right where I can feel the bandages through his jeans, and squeeze. I can't be hurting him much, but he knows damn well that I could. His face goes pale. I can practically see his adrenaline spike.

"That's what I thought," I mutter.

"That's cheating, you–" He cuts himself off with a gasp as I give his leg a solid whack.

"Shut up."

He does. Well, not exactly. The sound he makes is definitely not any coherent word.

"… Oh my god, you totally liked that. I _knew _it."

He shrugs without a trace of shame. I can't help respecting that. He's weird, but he's not sorry about it, and as far as I can see it's not like he's out there hurting anyone. Presumably not without their permission, anyway.

I hike the hurt leg up so it's pinned against my hip. The slightest bit of pressure from my thumb on the bandages and he closes his eyes and makes a squeaky little noise. It's very gratifying. Soon I've got my weight on him, a hand in his hair, dragging his head back, and then my lips are on his neck, and there's no way he's even _thinking _of turning this around on me.

Yeah, suck on that, Panem. You wish you had moves like me. Sure, he's probably playing it up for the cameras, but I think it's mostly real. I suspect it'll piss him off once he gets his wits back, and I love nothing more than making people love me and hate me at the same time.

I see something out of the corner of my eye. A pile of supplies that wasn't there before, presumably sponsor gifts approving of the little show we're putting on. How spectacularly exploitative. I love it, in a cynical, laughing-on-the-gallows kind of way. At least they're honest.

I put a hand on Ariel's neck experimentally. He smacks my arm away hard enough to hurt. Okay. None of that, then. But apparently my mouth is still fine—clearly he's able to assert boundaries in no uncertain terms—so I take the liberty of biting the spot I already bruised hard enough to make him yelp.

"Oh, hey, Amelia," Ariel says breathlessly.

What?

I look up with a start, my lips at his throat, his leg hooked around me, feeling a bit like I've been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

Amelia's standing in the doorway, looking more nonplussed than angry, if a little red in the cheeks. "Really, you two? I was gone for ten minutes. Contain yourselves. This is the Hunger Games."

Ariel shrugs, totally disregarding that I'm still on top of him. "Exactly. I've probably got a few days left to live. Why not make the most of it?"

I point out the sponsor gifts. "Anyway, we're _helping. _See?"

Amelia frowns. "Okay. Do what you want, I guess."

She still doesn't sound angry, but she doesn't sound happy, either. And I know exactly why.

Somebody's _jealous._

**Miles and miles away, Deyna gulps Jaegermeister. **


	36. Angelic

**Still with me? Great. And now for another camera angle. Not really. Well, kind of.**

**To clarify something I left pretty ambiguous, and for a fact of the day: Ariel managed to get the radioactive metal out of his boot within a few minutes of Luther leaving and kick it away. Having a piece of radioactive anything that close to you is never a ****_good _****thing, but it's true that feet aren't very radiation-sensitive and it wasn't there for very long. That, and it turns out the metal was an alpha emitter. Alpha particles can't penetrate the skin, although it's still not a good idea to play catch with them because if you inhale any of the metal it can certainly damage the insides of your lungs. Also, the type of Geiger counter he built—a simple version with an argon tube—can't distinguish between different types of radiation, so although he could guess it was alpha radiation, he couldn't be a hundred percent sure the Capitol didn't plant some kind of who-knows-what that emitted beta or gamma radiation, which most certainly ****_can _****get through the skin. Hence his preference to not have it near him.**

**Tl;dr: a chunk of uranium or plutonium in your immediate vicinity won't kill you unless it's big enough, but don't eat it or stuff it up your nose. (And if it ****_is_**** big enough, you ask? Excellent question! We'll come back to that.)**

**Felicity Haywood, District Twelve, 14**

I do not feel bad. I do not feel bad. I do not feel bad.

Okay, I feel bad.

But all I want is to survive. I don't want Des and Castalia to die. The thought is awful. But I don't see why I have to try and be a hero, either. I've always been that quiet girl in the background, shy and polite, never stirring things up. Am I really expected to put my life on the line for people I met a week ago?

But I guess a lot has happened in that week. We stuck together during training, we went down the hatch together, we faced the monster together. And I pushed Castalia out of my way to get away from it.

I'm not a hero. I'm not brave. I never claimed to be, I don't want to be. But that memory is really, really bothering me, eating away at my insides. I want to live, but I'm starting to realize I can't be ruthless or I'll make myself miserable. I'm making people hate me. And that's not even the problem, really. I'm chipping away at my own self-respect. The lower I sink to preserve my life, the less it's worth.

I changed my mind. Survival at all costs isn't such a good philosophy after all.

I don't move a muscle, perched on a pipe in a big, quiet storage room, but all at once I make what I know is a big decision: I'm going to be someone worthy of respect. I'm going to be brave. Fearless. I'm going to face this Arena down, and if it kills me I'll die like so many in my history books, fighting, pushing back, standing up, someone future generations can be proud of being descended from, except I obviously won't have descendants, but that's not the point, and I'm sure some of my siblings will have kids anyway so close enough. _Someone _will be proud to be related to me.

It's like a fire kindling in my chest. I feel physically stronger. Suddenly I understand the attitudes of some of those other tributes, like the Four boy and Ten girl. That quiet confidence despite their awful chances. It's not because they think they'll live, it's because they're not scared to die, and that means they win the only game they care about. If I'm not afraid, they have no power over me. It's only fear that can make me do what they want. But if I decide that I'm going to do what I know I'll respect myself the most for, there's not a damn thing they can do to stop me.

I drop from the pipe, draw the pistol, and stride out into the hallway, my head held higher than I think it's been in my life.

The Careers are on the top floor. With any luck, Des and Castalia are near there if they're still alive. I'm going to find them. If I meet a Career on the way, well, we'll see.

I make it to the top floor without incident. This floor is pretty dull, all metal hallways and locked hatches on the walls, although I can barely see them. I follow the reflected light toward what feels like the center of the Arena until I see it spilling from a doorway. That's got to be the Career base. Otherwise known as the place I am most definitely _not _going. I decided I'd be brave, not suicidal.

Except I hear something. Is it possible that Des and Castalia are still there? For all I know, there were only one or two Careers left and my former allies managed to kill them. And the noise sort of sounds like someone in pain. Sort of. Not quite.

Curiosity gets the better of me and I decide I'll peek around the corner after all. Very carefully. If someone sees me, I'll turn and run. I take one last look over my shoulder to make sure nothing's coming, then creep forward and lean around the edge of the doorway.

Oh, good lord.

I pull back, blinking owlishly and trying to process what I just saw. Questionably-Dancing Lab Boy made a… friend.

I should kill them. Just stroll in there and shoot them both. I bet they're too preoccupied to even notice me coming. But before I can decide whether that fits my newfound philosophy, there's a noise behind me. Footsteps.

I dart past the doorway, banking on the boys not noticing me, ducking into the darkness beyond it just in time. The footsteps round the corner. The One girl steps into the light and stops dead.

"Oh, hey, Amelia," Lab Boy's voice says from inside.

"Really, you two?" she reprimands, stepping into the room. "I was gone for ten minutes. Contain yourselves. This is the Hunger Games,"

Wait. Damn. I could've shot her, too, and been long gone before the boys managed to untangle themselves, find weapons, and come after me. If they even would, given how busy they were.

_Does_ killing Careers count as doing the right thing, though? I have no clue. What if the Careers killed Des and Castalia?

That's the real question. Where on Earth are Des and Castalia?

**Lillen Ketch, District Ten, 18**

My ol' grandpa used to say, if it's stupid and it works, it ain't stupid.

I've wandered up a few floors and I think I'm as high as I can go now. I've still got that black orb thingy. But not for long, I hope.

This floor is dark and seemingly deserted. The architecture is boring, anyway. Lots of metal and locked doors. Open rooms here and there without much of anything in them. But I'm sure there are night vision cameras everywhere, so if I just pull the thing from my pocket and drop it somewhere, the Gamemakers will notice.

Which is why I have my _plan._

I put my hand in my pocket and stride purposefully toward one of the empty hatch things. As I step inside, I "accidentally" catch my foot on the lip of the doorway and fall on my face. I "accidentally" grab a big shelf of stuff next to the door as I fall, dragging it down on top of myself. Blessedly empty beakers smash and forceps skitter across the room. Somewhere in the wreckage is the black orb. The shelf is a little heavier than I might've hoped—ow—but I can budge it when I wriggle a little.

"–Definitely this way–"

Hmm. That's not good.

Should I lie still and hope they'll go the wrong way? Do my best to get free and run for it? I could reach out and knock the door shut from where I am, but something tells me that if that door closes, it's not opening again. I'd rather run into the Careers. And I'm ninety percent sure the voice I heard was a Career.

I decide I like the idea of doing something and dying for it more than doing nothing and dying for it. I brace my toes and palms on the concrete and heave myself off the ground, struggling and cursing my way out from under the shelf. The metal screeches against the wall. More glass breaks.

"Here." The voice is right outside the door. No running, then.

I sigh and dive behind the pile of rubble. It's worth a shot.

The door crashes open and two tall figures clamber in. A boy and a girl. The girl sweeps a flashlight across the room, then holds it on me.

"Uh… I see you," the guy says.

I chew my lip and study the broken glass in front of me, because I guess I should revel in my last few seconds of life. Take it all in. Take all what in? Yep, that's a sharp bit of glass, alright. I know because my palms are torn to shreds. I note how dusty the air tastes and how hard the concrete is and how it'll all go on just fine without me.

Just because I'm gone doesn't mean I never was. I'm still real. I was here, I was good, I did good things, and that'll still be true when I'm dead.

I stand up straight and give the Careers a terse smile. With the light coming from behind them, I can't see their faces. It feels right somehow, making them seem almost angelic. The boy raises a crossbow and sends a bolt into my heart.


	37. Bummer

**Amaris da Costa, District Four, 17**

It's a good thing I'm hunting alone, because the first thing I do is fall down the stairs. I brush myself off and glance around to make sure no one saw that, other than the entirety of Panem. Okay. Good.

Except not really, because at least if someone saw it I could've just murdered the hell out of them. I'm here to kill people. That is the entire point of this exercise. So it's a bit of a bummer that there's no one around to kill.

"Bummer" is maybe an understatement. I'm bored. Dangerously bored. Angrily, furiously, ragingly bored. In a bloodthirsty sort of way.

I came here to kill people. I have trained my whole life to kill people. Dreamed about it. I played the good girl in District Four, sweet and innocent, knowing it would make it that much more fun when I finally, _finally _got to go all out, track and chase and charge and laugh and kill brutally enough to feel fulfilled. I've promised myself for years and years that I would get this chance to be totally unrestrained and unapologetic, shattering every rule of civilization, shattering people, because I can.

But _there's no one here._

I have to find them because I have to win. I promised her. Speaking out loud to my empty room in the middle of the night, talking to the moonlit ceiling, telling the silence that I would kill and kill and kill to prove myself the best, to show everyone how good _she _was. Amani's pathetic, but Mom's strength is obvious in me. They'll see me and know it's from her.

I pace and stalk and prowl down hallway after hallway like a caged animal, promising myself time after time that there will be someone around _this_ corner, no, okay, surely this one then, and then I can hurl myself at them and tear them to pieces.

Darkness. Flickering lights. Metal. The occasional monster mutt, but they crumble like frozen paper at my sword. My muscles are crackling with energy. I want to punch a wall just to get rid of it, but I'm not that stupid.

I search for hours and hours and find no one. At last I resign myself to a wasted day and start back to our base. I fucking _dare _anyone to mess with me tonight.

What I find at base, at least, lifts my mood somewhat. It's like a catfight, but instead of girls pulling each other's hair, it's pretty boys threatening to shoot each other in the face. Oh my god. This is the best thing ever. I've got to snapchat this.

Wait. Shit. Ugh.

My mood dives again. No phones, no coffee, no chocolate, no deaths. I want to scream, or throw someone through the wall, or both. Something has to give here. Soon.

**Atlas Edenthaw, District Eight, 17**

It's quiet and it's making me nervous.

We haven't run into anyone or anything since the clusterfuck in that intersection. I think we're going in circles, but Ted insists we aren't. It's not so much that I trust his judgment as that I don't care.

"Should we try another floor?" he whispers as we turn a corner into yet another dark hallway.

"If it's not broken, don't fix it," I reply.

"Good point."

We walk in silence for a few minutes.

"What was that?" Ted says sharply.

My stomach flips. "What was what?"

"I just… saw something. I think. Or I don't know if I _saw _it, but…" He trails off, squinting into the tunnel behind us.

My night vision isn't bad, but all I see is darkness. "Are you sure?"

"No."

"Well, should we keep walking?"

He shakes his head without taking his eyes off the distant blackness. "I don't think so. Then it'll be behind us."

"But you just said you're not sure it's there."

"Well, I… I'm not positive I saw it. But I'm pretty sure it's there."

I still don't see anything, but he's making me nervous. The blackness seems to grow more menacing by the second, like it's growing darker and closer.

It _is _growing darker and closer. Slowly but surely.

Ted narrows his eyes. "Is it…?"

"Yep. Let's go," I say hurriedly, grabbing him and taking off.

I still don't hear anything or even really see it, but I feel in my gut that we're being chased. That sharp, sick feeling that claws will sink into the back of my neck any second. I don't want to believe it. I can almost convince myself that it's all in my head, like that instinctive jumpiness of climbing up the stairs from a dark basement. Almost.

I risk another glance over my shoulder and wish I hadn't. There's something there. Something big. Flashing in the darkness, like dull metal. The pattern of its movements reminds me of a pile of snakes.

I gulp and decide to concentrate on running.

We pass a tunnel and I'm about to drag Ted down it when I realize the weird, opaque darkness is there, too. And the next one. And the next one. It's still behind us. There's no way it couldn't catch us if it really wanted to, whatever "it" is. It's herding us somewhere.

And then it's gone, retreating like it's been sucked back by a vacuum. The tunnels are still dark, but not that freaky, quasi-supernatural blackness.

Something's going to happen. They wouldn't chase us like that and leave both of us unharmed if there wasn't more to it. There's something here.

Ted nudges me, puts a finger to his lips, and points to a hallway that intersects ours maybe ten feet away. He's right. There's something in there, coming toward us. We back up against the wall in unison, so hopefully we'll see it before it sees us. I grip the knife until my knuckles feel about to crack, tensing to spring.

The sound gets closer. Stumbling, uneven footsteps. Too solid to be one of the pale mutts. Heavy breathing. A tribute?

Desdemona comes running out of the hallway, sobbing for breath. And just sobbing in general. She's gripping a pistol. She practically collapses against the far wall, her hands shaking. The thing that chased us must've chased her here too, and I don't think distance running is high on her skill list.

Ted and I exchange glances. I think we're thinking the same thing. No way we're killing her, but it'd be good if she didn't shoot us. I don't think she'd kill me ordinarily, but who knows what kind of crazy mood she's in?

"Des?" I say quietly, wondering if I should run or tackle her if she points the gun at me.

Of course she jumps, whirls, and aims it right at my face, wide-eyed and still shaking.

I freeze. "Uh, whoa."

She stares at me for a second like she doesn't recognize me, then runs at me. Before I can react, she throws her arms around me and starts crying into my coat.

Um.

I shoot Ted a panicked what-do-I-do look. He bites his lip. I think he's laughing at me. Jackass.

"Um… yeah. Hi," I say to Des, patting her shoulder awkwardly. "It's, um, it's okay. Sorry about… whatever."

She squeezes me tighter. For a thirteen-year-old girl, she's _really _strong.

"Des?"

She makes a sniffling noise. There's something jabbing my spine.

"Des, I can't breathe. And, uh, watch where you're pointing the gun, please."

She relaxes her grip slightly and stops aiming the pistol at my kidney.

"Okay. Better. Thanks."

This is… new. People running _to _me for comfort is exactly the opposite of how things usually go. I have no idea what I'm doing. Shoulder pats, I think, are a thing that people do, but I already tried that and it didn't work. Should I say nice things? Try to figure out what happened? Why wasn't there a booth for this at training?

"Castalia," she sniffs.

"I… who? What?"

"Castalia!" she cries. "The C-Careers, they… they p-pushed her in the pit, s-she…"

"Oh," I say, then run out of ideas. Ted gives me a Look. I give the shoulder patting another try, and she actually relaxes a little. I'm learning.

She thinks I'm a good person. It's the weirdest fucking thing. What am I supposed to do when she realizes the truth? Better to just keep her from getting too attached in the first place.

"C-Can I stay with you?" she mumbles into my chest.

Dammit.

My hesitation must show on my face, because Ted gives me what I'm starting to realize is his patented don't-be-an-ass look.

"Yeah, no problem."


	38. Something Nice

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

"Luther," Kaya calls from the hall in her this-is-serious-come-look-now voice.

She's very capable. I like her. I wish I could keep her, but I can't.

I stick my head out the door of the security booth. Kaya is standing thirty feet down the hallway in the opposite direction from the intersection. It's odd to see it so quiet when it was so very lively once upon a time.

"Did you mean to do that?" Kaya says, pointing. There's a screen on the wall I don't remember seeing before. Too dark, maybe, or camouflaged. But now it's lit up, displaying what looks like a live feed of the main workstation in the security room.

"Hmm," I say. "So _that's _what that button does."

"Do you think there are more? Screens, I mean?"

"There could be. I'll find something nice to put up for everybody." I return to the booth and hit the button again. "Did it go off?"

"Yep."

I decide to take another sweep through the security cameras before deciding on something to display. The other tributes don't need _quite _that much information. The cameras on Floor One seem to have stopped working entirely. The Sixes and Eights are on Floor Two. The Threes are passed out in a storage closet on Three. The District Ten wolfman is snuffling around up the hallway from them. The Careers are still based on Floor Five. Two of them, I think the One boy and Two girl, are wandering around up there, drawing toward the Ten girl, with another lone Career girl on her way down to Four. The Twelve girl is running around on Floor Two too, for whatever reason. The Four boy and One girl are at the base with Ariel.

"Oh," Kaya says. "You were right. They saved him."

I nod thoughtfully. "Knew it. Could you go watch the screen out there again?"

Kaya leaves. I find a better angle of the Career base, raising an eyebrow as Ariel makes a spectacularly transparent attempt to cuddle up to the One girl. He's shameless. And also hurt, I notice, and of course doing his very best impression of a wounded gazelle. She ignores him. Ouch. He gives up and settles down on his stomach next to her, closing his eyes.

But oh, what's this? A few seconds later, she puts her hand on his shoulder, not rubbing it or anything, just sort of resting it there. But that's all I need to see. They like each other.

"No no _no, _darling, you don't _get _nice things," I chide Ariel's onscreen image.

"What?" Kaya says from the doorway.

"Nothing. Almost done."

"'Kay."

She leaves again. I flip through the computer's displays. Time, traps, blah blah blah… ooh. A list of tributes, some of the names greyed out. Perfect. That ought to raise morale.

"Oh," Kaya's voice says from down the hall as I make the screen live.

I grin and jog out to join her. The list is still long—all of Districts One through Six but Jaiven, plus Kaya, Desdemona, Atlas, Fenris, and Felicity. Sixteen names. That will change.

**Reyna Alcott, District Six, 18**

The pipe next to me makes an ominous cracking noise, then an earsplitting shriek. I jump backwards instinctively. A split second later, a jet of blue-white steam blasts from a joint. I feel the heat of it even from a few feet away.

Okay. I did something wrong and they're warning me about it, but not wrong enough for them to actually burn me. They gave me plenty of time to dodge. They're fair.

But what did I do? I've just been wandering around, eating, and sleeping. I lost Ted.

Is that it? I lost Ted? Do they want me to kill Ted?

I smell something. Sharp and bitter, like lemon juice, but orders of magnitude more intense, strong enough to burn my throat. The pipe is still leaking.

Not just the inside of my throat, I realize as I run. My face burns too. The stuff is caustic.

And it's billowing from the intersecting tunnel. There's an opaque, smoky wall of blue-white creeping toward me. I look over my shoulder. Same thing.

Uh-oh.

Is this some kind of test? If I close my eyes and hold my breath and run into the stuff, will I make it out the other side? Or have I already failed and they're doing away with me? I don't want to die.

The fog is thick enough to block the light from the fixtures it's already covered. I'm isolated in a shrinking chamber of clean air, the approaching toxic smoke stark and shimmering blue in the white light. The walls are smooth metal. I don't see what help the pipes on the ceiling are.

There's a door. I curse myself for being too panicky and distracted to notice it earlier. One of those heavy hatches in the wall, the edge of it just now vanishing into the smoke.

I run at it without a second of hesitation, noting in a vague, impersonal sense that this is going to be excruciatingly painful. It doesn't concern me much. I may not be charming or book-smart or pretty or anything nice like that, but I have my strengths. When I decide to do something, I do it. End of story.

I hold my breath, squint my eyes until I can barely see, and charge into the smoke. My hands, neck, and face immediately feel like someone's thrown acid over them. I can't keep my eyes open. I find the hatch, clawing blindly for the wheel thing that opens it. My hands feel like they're being dissolved to the bone.

What _is _this stuff? I could use it back home. It would be very persuasive, I bet.

The hatch swings open. I tumble through it and slam it shut. There's an ominously final-sounding _click, _but I don't care.

My skin doesn't hurt anymore. I frown and touch my face. It feels normal. The skin of my hands is smooth and warm when I rub them together.

Hmm.

There's no light here. From the way my breathing echoes, I think this place is about the size of an average bedroom and mostly empty. It's cold, but not freezing. Dead silent except the noise I'm making.

But there has to be something here. The Capitol wants me to be here.

"Hello?" I say out loud. Nothing.

I poke at the door experimentally. I don't find anything like a handle. Nothing happens when I press on it lightly, then harder, throwing my shoulder against it. I'm strong, but it's apparent that the door is very much locked.

Now I'm nervous, but I force the feeling down. There's a reason for this. There's a reason for everything the Capitol does. I just have to calm down and think and figure out what they're trying to tell me.

But nothing is happening. I search the room, feeling in the corners even though I half-expect something to bite my hand off. Nothing but unidentifiable, dusty bits of debris. I keep looking, more because having something to do is helping me stay calm than because I really think it'll do any good.

I miss my snakes. Especially Monty the python. He's a sweetheart, squeezing people I drop him on, but letting them go when I snap my fingers. I'd feel so much better if he were here with me right now to keep me company.

I try the door again, a bit more urgently this time. Nothing.

I flop to the floor with an irritated growl, pulling my knees up to my chest and staring into the blackness. It seems to be getting heavier by the second and I keep thinking I see it billowing like the smoke in the hallway, getting closer, but the vision vanishes just before it reaches me.

"Reyna."

I gasp and sit bolt upright.

"Reyna, can you hear me?"

"I-I…" I stutter, looking in every direction even though I still can't see. "Dad?"

"It's me."

"… Hi," I say weakly. I don't know how to feel. I miss him, a lot, but is it a bad thing that the Capitol brought him in? I know he's not really here in the Arena, but still, his voice was the last thing I expected to hear.

"Reyna, listen to me."

"Of course."

"You know why you're here."

"I… I think so?"

"Yes, you do. You know the purpose of the Hunger Games. Don't you?"

I take a deep breath and steel myself. Of course I do. Justice. Punishing those who have done wrong. "Yes, I know it."

"Then you know what you have to do."

"I…"

"Will you be a force for justice? Or will you skulk around like one of them?"

Dad doesn't talk like that, but I barely notice. "No. I mean, yes. Yes to the justice one."

"Are you sure?"

The voice doesn't even sound like my father anymore. It's deeper and louder, uncomfortably so.

"I'm sure."

"Then _prove it." _

Now it's loud enough to make me cover my ears, echoing and echoing through the little metal room. I feel it in my chest.

"I will. What do you want me to do?" I say into the darkness, trying to keep my voice firm and strong.

"You _know _what to do," the voice snarls, hitting me like a punch and knocking me to the floor, making me curl up with my hands over my ears and my knees over my hands. I'm scared. But I also feel a flaring sense of purpose. I _knew _it. I knew they reaped me for a reason. They believe in me. They want me to fight for them, for justice, for everything they've built.

I uncover my ears. "I do know," I whisper.

"Good." The voice returns to a normal volume. Now it sounds nothing like my father, but it's almost as familiar.

It's the President, I realize. President Fife himself is speaking to me. I might pass out.

The door swings open of its own accord. The air outside is clear and bright.

Fife's voice speaks one more time as I stumble to my feet, still relatively quiet, but full and firm as a deity. "Then _do it."_


	39. Weak Spot

**Merona Styx, District Two, 18**

"How many people have we killed so far?" I ask.

Amaris rolls her eyes, slashing her sword in midair restlessly. "Four. One for me, two for you, half each for the Ones. The pretty boys and Jaiven, blessings and peace be upon his soul, get none."

"I just got here," Ariel protests. "And I can barely walk."

"Whose fault is that?" Amaris sniffs.

Ariel gives her a grumpy look. "Uh, not mine?"

"Shut up."

"Make me."

Oh, boy.

There's a beat of silence. Amaris kicks up to her feet, paces across the room and crouches down in front of him, every aspect of her body language as aggressive as it could possibly be. "Should I? You _really_ want to start with me right now, princess?"

Ariel freezes in the middle of soldering a doohickey onto the thingy. "Well… honestly, that depends on how you intend to go about doing it."

"How about I beat you unconscious?"

"But that kills brain cells. How about you cover my mouth? With your mouth, or whatever you want, really? Have I ever mentioned that you're fearsomely beautiful?" he says, staring up at her longingly, or at least doing a good impression of it.

Amaris manages to keep the scowl, but I can tell she wants to smile. "Oh my god, you bitch, shut _up._"

His cheeks turn red. "Don't call me that."

Amaris laughs. "I'll call you whatever I damn well please, bitch."

"I said don't," Ariel hisses. Just as suddenly as the situation almost recovered, it gets tense again. And I already know what's going to happen. Neither of them will back down, and Amaris will get violent. She already ceded leadership to Jaiven, and then to Amelia; there's no way she'll brook subordination from him. Not after she's gone practically the whole Hunger Games so far without hurting anyone.

"I don't care what you said, bitch. Don't fuck with…" Amaris trails off. The tip of the soldering iron is an inch from her eye.

"Do _not _call me that," Ariel says quietly. Ooh. And it's not like he reacts to any other insult. There's a history there.

Amaris smiles.

Ariel gulps.

Oh, _boy._ Somebody's in trouble.

I'm not sure he understands that Amaris and Amelia are not the same. Amelia can kill, but Amaris is on a whole different level. It's not just that she justifies herself. She actively wants to hurt people. It's _fun _for her. In her mind, she makes the rules, period, and anything is justified as long as she's the one doing it.

Which, now that I think about it, could be said about me, although I guess I'm a little less bloodthirsty. Well, fine. We're both awesome; why _shouldn't _we do whatever we want? But I'm still better. Two kills to her one, after all.

Ariel's trademark unholy screech echoes through the room, reminding me that, oh right, there's still a bit of a situation going on here. I'm supposed to be sleeping right now, actually, while Amaris keeps watch—Ariel doesn't count as a guard—but I want to see this.

I scoot to the side to get a better view. Amaris has him in an arm bar. There's a nasty burn on the inside of his forearm, and from the look on her face—halfway between rage and cruel delight—she's not done yet. Ariel is fighting for all he's worth, but I can tell at a glance that he doesn't have the strength or skill to get away. Besides, she's got him locked up so if he pulls away too hard, he'll shatter his own elbow. Nasty.

He shoots me a pleading look. I give him a not-my-problem shrug in return. Honestly, what did he expect? That's why you stay in your goddamn lane, especially when your knight in shining armor is out hunting.

And Amaris isn't just messing with him because she can. She's _pissed. _It probably doesn't help that she's got a whole lot of bloodthirsty energy to burn. But for a split second, he scared her, and I've seen enough of her to know that's unforgivable. I wonder if she'll kill him.

There's another awful, ragged scream as Amaris presses the soldiering iron to Ariel's skin and leaves it there. And then does it again. He's not fighting anymore, just shuddering and wailing every time she burns him, his face the palest I've seen it so far. He'll lose consciousness soon if she keeps this up. Wuss.

"Do. Not. Threaten. Me," Amaris snarls.

"Okay, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry Amaris _please–"_ he gasps, twisting to bite his coat and muffle another scream as she burns him yet again.

She kicks him away abruptly and jumps to her feet, then kicks him a few more times, seemingly just because. I think she's burned through her anger at him by now, but she's going to keep taking things out on him, because why not, right? He can't run or fight anyway, so who cares if she hurts him, as long as he can still build gadgets for us? And he blew it by running away at the Cornucopia; he's more captive than ally.

Amaris throws a punch at his ribs. I think I hear a crack. Ariel curls up on his side with another muffled yell. He stays that way, doing his best to duck and cover as Amaris hits him again and again. They're not well-aimed, trained blows designed to incapacitate or kill; at this point I think she just wants to hit something softer than the wall and he was unlucky enough to get in her way.

She kicks him onto his back, slams a knee into his chest, traps one of his arms, and grabs him by the throat. He panics instantly, wide-eyed, thrashing and tugging on her wrist. She barely seems to notice.

"Never again," she hisses, shaking him and whacking his head against the floor in the process. "Don't you ever, _ever–"_

Ariel must black out, because Amaris lets go of his neck with another wild-animal growl. He starts gasping for breath a second later. She grabs his hair and snatches the soldering iron from the ground, twirling it in front of his face with a wicked grin.

Ooh, she's going right for the weak spot: his vanity. Harsh, but I don't care.

Ariel sucks in a breath as he realizes the same thing. He was scared before, but the look in his eyes now is pure terror. I wonder if he's trying to imagine a life of not being unspeakably pretty. Guess he'll find out what that's like in short order.

Movement beyond them catches my eye.

"Amaris," I say sharply, scrambling to my feet.

There are monsters in the doorway. A lot of them, with more skulking into view by the second. Amaris stands up, stepping on Ariel's gut in the process, drawing her sword.

We stare at the monsters. The monsters stare back. The standoff stretches on for a few minutes. Then, all at once, they slink back into the darkness.

Amaris and I exchange glances. We don't have to say it out loud; we both get the loud, clear message from the Gamemakers. We can beat the living hell out Ariel if we want, call him names, burn him, choke him out, whatever, but we better not mess up his face. I wonder if he caught onto the same thing.

I glance over to see what he's up to. He's dragged himself back over to his spot by the wall, curled around his burned arm with his back to us. His shoulders are shaking. Aw. Someone's unhappy.

Amaris stalks up and kicks him hard. "Get your shit together and keep working," she snarls.

He lifts his head slowly, his face tear-streaked, staring at the soldering iron like he thinks it'll attack him. Amaris tenses like she's about to hit him again. He gulps and picks it up, trying to grab a circuit doohickey with his other hand, but it's shaking so badly he can't get a grip on it for a good ten seconds.

Now, what's going to happen when Amelia gets back?

**Fenris Carter, District Ten, 18**

The girl in the doorway has a knife. She's not very big. I can kill her. Once I kill her, it won't be hard to kill the boy behind her. He's bleeding a lot. I can smell it.

I swing the pipe. She leans out of the way. The pipe hits the doorway, and it hurts my hand. The girl's arm shoots out and she tears it from my numbed grip before I know what's happening. Now she has a knife in one hand and a pipe in the other and I have nothing. But I can still kill her.

I take a step forward. She raises the pipe, jabbing it into my chest and stopping me where I am, staring at me flatly. I don't think she ever blinks.

I grab the pipe and pull on it. She hangs on and pushes off the ground and comes flying at my face knife-first. I manage to raise an arm and deflect what was meant to be a full-on stab into my neck. The knife slashes across my face instead and the girl scrambles over my shoulder before I can grab her and lands on her feet behind me.

She missed my eye. There's blood dripping into my eyes, though. That's bad.

I glance into the room. The boy is lying on his stomach, staring at me, tense and wide-eyed. He has a knife too, but he's badly hurt. He won't attack unless I'm about to kill the girl. I'm between the girl and him. I should kill him now so that I can deal with her alone.

His hair isn't so blue anymore. I guess there are no berry patches to fall in down here.

I turn lash out at the girl. She isn't expecting it and I knock her across the hallway, too far away for me to reach her before she gets up, but now I have time to kill the boy.

His eyes get wider when he sees me coming at him. He tries to get up, but falters when he puts weight on his shoulder. Which will be faster, taking the knife from him and killing him with that, or breaking his neck? I hesitate for a moment, then decide to take the knife to be sure he won't stab me. I lean down and catch his wrist as he slashes at me weakly.

I see movement in the corner of my eye and realize the girl is faster than I expected. I turn to meet her and find the sole of her boot in my face.

Ow.

I stumble backwards. My nose is broken, I think. The girl is between me and the boy again. Now she looks angry. _Very _angry. Breathing hard, eyes cold, teeth glinting. I'm also angry, but my instincts tell me that this isn't a good fight. I know better to attack when a solid opponent is on a fierce defensive. Besides, my nose hurts. I want to go put water on it.

I bare my teeth one last time and leave.


	40. Death Wish

**CW: Woohyun being an ass, which manifests as vague transphobia.**

**Ash Lytton, District One, 17**

"I'm telling you, I saw someone," Woohyun insists as we lope up the hall back to base. "Skinny blondish girl. That'd be, what, Twelve?"

"We'll get her later," I say tersely.

"She could be anywhere later."

"Look, can you just stop talking?"

I'm not sure why I'm so touchy. I'm getting frustrated, I guess. This isn't how the Games are supposed to go. I'll never admit it, but Jaiven's death shook me up, and I've felt pretty useless since then. But I'm supposed to be the _best. _I'm the biggest, strongest person left in the Career pack by a mile, second only to Fenris in the Arena, and he's not exactly operating with a full house upstairs. This should be my party now.

"No, I'm not going to stop talking, because I'm _right," _Woohyun insists. "We should track her down."

I shake my head wearily. "You said it yourself. You don't care about winning. You volunteered because you've got a death wish. And you're still talking because you're an attention whore."

"I do not have a death wish!" Woohyun spits.

"You volunteered for a stranger. You want to die, and doing it in here means people will maybe give a rat's ass when it happens, because they sure wouldn't otherwise."

He bares his teeth. "Don't fucking psychoanalyze me."

"Don't annoy me."

"Guys," Amelia says with a long-suffering sigh. "Could you quit trying to piss each other off? Save it for the final eight."

"He started it," Woohyun sulks, trying to shoulder me and mostly just bouncing off.

"I did no such thing."

"Did too."

I lash out without looking at him, knocking his sword from his hand and sending it clattering off down the tunnel.

"Oh, _fuck _you!" Woohyun yells, throwing an elbow at my side. I think it hurts him more than it hurts me.

"Want to go pick that up, or try and hit me again?" I say with what has to be the least happy smile in the history of the universe. "See what fucking happens."

Amelia waves a hand between us. "How about you both put 'em back in your pants and we get back to base?"

"Put it back in _your _pants," Woohyun mutters. "If you can."

I open my mouth to object, because even I know that's a low blow, but Amelia catches my eye and shakes her head. For a second I think she's going to let him get away with it, but she wheels on him suddenly. Oh, boy. This oughta be good.

"That's really none of your business," she says cheerfully.

"Okay, well–"

"All you need to know about what I have it that it's bigger than yours."

Oh. _Oh. _Ouch.

She turns around and walks away before Woohyun can respond. I follow her, snickering into my hand.

I don't think he meant that. Not really. He just automatically says the cruelest thing he can think of as soon as it pops into his head. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm increasingly tempted to pull a Merona and drop-kick him into the acid pit.

We walk into base and I sense immediately that the drama for the day isn't over. Ariel is on the ground working feverishly on the Geiger counter and doesn't look up when we come in. There's a distinct cringe to his posture that wasn't there before, like he's expecting a blow to the c-spine any second. Merona looks like a delighted little kid who saw her sibling break a vase and can't wait for their mother to notice. Amaris is lounging against the wall, watching us slyly, tearing into a piece of beef jerky with more ferocity than seems strictly necessary.

Woohyun sits next to her. Amelia strides over to Ariel, who still refuses to look up even though her boots are right in front of the stuff he's working on. I plant my ass right next to the door, holding my crossbow as close to a fighting grip as I dare. Merona catches my eye, idly drawing patterns in the air with her sword. Amaris finishes eating and casually draws a throwing knife, tossing and catching it. Both of them keep glancing at Amelia and Ariel. I'm not sure what they're expecting, but the tension in the room is mounting by the second.

I take mental stock of the guns. Woohyun has a rifle on his back. Amelia has a pistol, but I suspect she's out of bullets. We lost one when Jaiven died. I think there are a few more pistols buried in the giant pile of extra stuff in the corner, but nothing anyone could get to quickly.

And then Merona's arm moves and it's like the massive scuffle in the intersection all over again, in that everything goes straight to hell in a second flat.

Merona whips a pistol from inside her coat and points it at Amaris, who's sitting down and can't possibly move fast enough to avoid it. What she _can _do is grab Woohyun and drag him in front of her.

_Bang._

There's an indignant squawk from the back of the room. From the corner of my eye, I see Amelia tossing Ariel over her shoulder, Geiger counter and all.

Amaris pushes Woohyun away. There's a bullet hole in his chest. He's alive, but choking on blood.

"Fuck you!" she screeches at Merona. "_I _wanted to kill him, you bitch!"

Merona smirks and tosses the pistol over her shoulder into the pit. That was her last bullet, I guess. Plus I think she's too dramatic to just shoot everyone down and walk out.

Well, I'm not.

I raise the crossbow. Amelia charges right past me, still carrying Ariel, but she's not a threat right now and if I shoot her I'll have to reload. Ariel gives me a dazed upside-down wave.

Something slashes my arm. I look down with a yelp to find my forearm bleeding, my bowstring cut, and Amaris's throwing knife clattering to the floor. Damn. Nice toss.

Her second throw buries itself in my stomach. Less nice.

I double over like I've been punched in the gut. I'm bleeding. Not dead. Maybe dying. Definitely dying if I stay here.

Amelia vanishes out the door. Merona and Amaris draw swords and stride toward each other like they mean business. I scramble after Amelia before either of them decides to take me out while I'm an easy target, covering the wound in my stomach as well as I can.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Fuck. I didn't train for this.

Amelia's gone. I half-run, half-fall down the stairs to Floor Four. I don't think there's been much activity here. I pick a direction at random and stagger down the hallway.

My parents are watching me right now, I realize with a flinch. Probably yelling at the TV, cursing me for not seeing that coming. I _just saw _her with the knives. Of course she'd expect me to try something with the crossbow, and even if her attention seemed to be on Merona, the bow made me a more immediate threat. Now I've gone from one of the biggest threats in the Arena to a sitting duck.

The hallway is lined with bedrooms. I pick one at random. Old-fashioned, as dingy and dusty as the rest of the Arena, but I'll take it. There are books on a little shelf. Creepy portraits next to the dim lamp on the nightstand. Was that really necessary? The room feels haunted, like someone died here.

Well, someone might be about to, I think grimly.

There's one of those little video screens listing the tributes on the wall next to the bed. Amaris and Merona are both still glowing, as are Amelia, Ariel and I. Woohyun's name is greyed out. I'm not exactly heartbroken, but I'm not happy about it, either. I don't think that was how he wanted to die. He was fucked-up, but some part of him was trying to sort himself out. Even if he really was suicidal, he was just a kid like the rest of us; there's no way he couldn't have gotten better. I think he had a family out there.

Merona's name turns grey.

I'm dizzy. I sit down hard on the bed, then lie down on my back so gravity can help my blood stay in my body. But that won't save me if the knife sliced something important open. How am I supposed to know? Just lie here until I get better or die? Don't I have sponsors? I want painkillers, but more than that, I desperately want to know whether or not the wound is fatal.

There's a spider on the ceiling. Accidental? There for decoration? A venomous mutt that's going to jump down and inject acid into my face? Who knows?

A noise echoes from down the hallway. I glance over the edge of the bed and realize the floor is splattered with blood. Mine. I left a trail from the base to here.

I look at the screen again. Amaris's name blazes bright and strong.

Oh, no.

I heave myself off the bed again, gritting my teeth at the fresh wave of pain and blood. I've just drawn my sword when the door flies open and bangs against the wall.

"Hi," Amaris says with a crazy smile.

I'm stronger, but I have to cover the wound with one hand to avoid bleeding to death, which throws me off-balance. And I've already lost enough blood to make my head swim. I know I'm screwed before she even attacks.

Amaris locks swords with me. I can hold her back, but I can't block the punch she throws at my face. Now I'm _really _dizzy. Her eyes glint manically in the lamplight as she slams the side of her hand against my throat, toppling me backwards onto the bed. She leaps after me, crouching over me, her sword still pinning mine to my chest.

"Sucks to suck," she snarls, pulling a knife from nowhere and ramming it into my heart.

Sorry, Dad.

**Moment of silence for Merona, Ash and Woohyun, the latter of whom was a dick but dammit I liked him. I liked Ash and Merona too. I like them all. Sorry for the offscreen death.**

**Alive: Amelia, Viss, Luka, Amaris, Luther, Ariel, Reyna, Ted, Kaya, Des, Atlas, Fenris, Felicity. Unlucky thirteen, eheheh.**


	41. Feelings

**Ted Walsh, District Six, 17**

If I don't get out of here soon, I'm going to lose my mind.

I actually dragged the Eights all the way back to the ladder so I could try the hatch. Locked. I'll either win the Hunger Games or die down here, and let's be real, it's going to be the second one.

I can almost push it from my mind, but not quite. There's a constant, panicky buzzing, telling me something's not right, I shouldn't be here, this whole damn thing's not _real, _I just…

I don't know. I don't think I'm actually going crazy, just getting a serious case of cabin fever. And it's a hell of a blow to my morale, knowing I'll never see the sky again. This feels more like purgatory than a fight to the death. I know I shouldn't give up hope like that, but… too late.

"Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa," Atlas says, tensing and pointing behind me.

I whip around, expecting a monster, but that's not it. It's one of those godawful screen things, and it's changed: the Four boy is dead.

"Wasn't he a Career?" I say. "Or with them, at least."

"Yeah," Atlas says uneasily. "I don't know what could've killed him."

"Something got the Two guy already," Des points out quietly.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Maybe the Careers are fighting?" I suggest.

Atlas frowns. "You'd think there'd be more than one death, though. Maybe they just got sick of him."

Right on cue, the Two girl's name blinks out.

"Okay," I say slowly. "So either they're fighting, or they ran into something _really _nasty."

All three of us shift uncomfortably, and I think we're all remembering the metal thing in the dark that chased us together.

We watch the names for another few minutes. Just when I'm about to assume the excitement is over, the One boy's name goes out.

"God _damn, _that is morbid," Atlas mutters to himself.

"Says Mr. Rainbows and Sunshine himself."

"Yeah, well. Reyna's still out there."

I frown. "Yeah. And?"

"I dunno. Wasn't she kinda a nutcase? Running around bashing monsters' heads in with a rock?"

"Yeah, little bit. Her dad's a Peacekeeper. She's super gung-ho about the Capitol."

Atlas raises an eyebrow. "Still?"

"As far as I know."

"Huh."

Des is lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, the pistol on her chest. She tried to give it to Atlas, I guess as a goodwill kind of thing. He told her to keep it. I'm not a hundred percent sure I agree with that decision, but I didn't protest.

I'm pretty sure Atlas will do whatever it takes to protect her. He just doesn't know it yet. Which doesn't put me in the best position, since I have no doubt that he'd sacrifice me to save her.

Would I sacrifice myself to save her? I have no idea. She's four years younger than me. How much more valuable does that make her life? What are her chances, really, even if I can spare her from one danger?

She's made it this far, I guess. Lived through monsters and Careers. She's an unlikely Victor, but not an impossible one.

I remember all at once that even if I _do _survive, I'm not getting my old life back. District Six doesn't win often. I'd probably be mentoring for the rest of my life, year after year, watching kids get dressed up and marched into the slaughterhouse. No matter what happens, my life was over as soon as the escort drew my name.

Maybe I'd be doing her a favor if I let her get ripped up by a monster.

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

I barely manage to snatch the strap of my backpack when the Careers implode and Amelia grabs me. I expect her to drag me to my feet. I'm impressed and more than a little turned on when she straight-up chucks me over her shoulder instead and runs off. She darts in front of Ash, and for a split second I find myself with the tip of his crossbow bolt a foot from my nose, but I guess he decides we're not worth shooting. Works for me. I give him a polite, upside-down wave good-bye, but I don't think he notices.

Amelia slows down as the clamor from behind us fades. She puts me down gently, which feels weird, because _gentle _is the last word I'd use to describe what usually happens after someone picks me up. Not that I was expecting her to slam me against a wall, exactly, but still. She just holds me for a second to make sure I've got my balance, then slings my bag onto her back and my arm around her shoulders.

"Um. Thank you," I say uncertainly. I'm not sure what the etiquette is for talking to someone who's saved my life twice in around two days.

"No problem. You okay?"

"Uh…"

"That's a 'no.' Did something happen?"

I chew my lip. "Well, uh. Amaris kinda decided to beat the fuck out of me while you were gone."

Amelia blinks. "She _what?"_

"Ta-da." I pull my sleeve up ruefully, showing her the burns. They look even nastier than before. Definitely going to scar. I don't mind; it'll look roguish.

She looks more upset than I expected. "Why the hell…?"

"Long story."

"Tell me a short version."

"She called me a bitch, so I threatened her with the soldering iron, and she didn't like that."

I'm expecting her to tell me off for overreacting, but she looks furious. At Amaris, not me, I'm pretty sure. Which makes me feel kind of nice. I can't remember the last time someone was genuinely concerned about me. Plenty of people act like it, sure, but there's always an ulterior motive. I don't think Amelia has one, and it's giving me a severe case of the warm and fuzzies.

Which makes me want to bang my head against the wall. What, so now I'm one of those cheesy romance novel protagonists who falls for the first person who doesn't try to get in their pants because wow, what a goddamn novelty? No. Absolutely not. But when Amelia takes my wrist absentmindedly to get a better look at the burns, my stomach does a backflip.

At having my _wrist _touched. What the fuck? And I guess I was drawn to her long before she expressed anything like concern for me. She seemed… safe? Something like that. Like I couldn't fool her or charm her, but she'd have sympathy for me anyway and not write me off as either creepy or a toy. Her being at least civil to me doesn't depend on me keeping up some act. I can let her see me ugly-cry without becoming worthless in her eyes.

"Is it just the burns?" Amelia asks, snapping me out of it.

"My ribs don't feel super. I think it's mostly just bruises, though. I'm fine."

"Hold still," she says, reaching out to feel along my ribs.

Of course I yelp and jump away, because it hurts like a motherfucker, plus it's way too similar to Luther on the train. So she managed to give me a straight-up phobia. Cool. Just fucking great. I am going to murder her to _death._

"Damn," Amelia says, frowning. "That feels broken. I wouldn't have picked you up like that if I knew; it could've gone through your lung. Were you ever planning on mentioning it if Merona hadn't started that?"

"No."

"Why?"

I hesitate, because I know she won't like my answer, but it's the truth. "That's the fourth fight I've lost to a girl since getting Reaped."

"So? Since when have you cared about being a good fighter?"

"Since I keep getting my ass kicked and it fucking sucks, that's when." Now I sound like a whiny five-year-old and I know it, but goddamn am I just about done with this whole Hunger Games thing. I don't know what I thought it would be like, but this isn't it. I didn't realize it would really, seriously _hurt _in a not-even-a-little-bit-fun way_. _And that I'd be scared. I'm keeping myself under control, barely, but there's a wave of stress and fear rearing up to crash down on me and I can't hold it off much longer. It would be really great if everyone could just _stop fucking hitting me. _Please?

Amelia unzips the backpack I grabbed. "Is there ammo in here? You can have the pistol if you want."

"… Really?"

"I mean, no offense, but I don't know what else you could use effectively right now. And wouldn't you feel better if you had something?"

"Well, yeah, but…"

I have no idea how to articulate what I'm thinking without making things awkward. Why the hell would she trust me that much? Because she knows I know I need her, I guess. Betraying her would be suicide. But why's she talking about making me _feel _better? Like she knows I'm about one jump scare away from breaking down in hysterical tears.

"Ariel?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are these here?" Amelia asks, pulling out the handcuffs and two bottles of painkillers. I stuck a gas mask I swiped from the supply pile in there too, but I guess that's self-explanatory.

I shrug and immediately regret it when it sends a jolt through my ribs. "Well. Painkillers because I am, in fact, in pain. Speaking of which…"

I snatch the bottle, shake five or so pills into my hand, and gulp them down dry. Amelia gives me a Look, but doesn't stop me.

"And you never know when you'll need handcuffs," I continue.

"I don't think I've ever found myself needing handcuffs," she says doubtfully.

"Clearly we lead very different lives."

It's lucky my deviant tendencies set up the lie for me, because actually, they're not for me. Never again. That's all ruined for me now. They're for if a certain bony-assed sadistic psychopath forces my hand to… creativity.

Try me. Fucking try me one more time.

"Okay," Amelia says slowly. "So. Now what?"

"If you don't have a plan, I wouldn't mind going back to the workshop."

"Sure. Why?" she asks, putting my arm over her shoulder again so I can walk without putting my full weight on the leg Ash shot.

"Because if I can find the right stuff, this Arena is all mine," I say with a smile even I realize it a little on the crazed side. "And I bet I can find the right stuff, now that I've got a Geiger counter and a good chance of not being caught and used as monster bait this time."

"What's the 'right stuff', exactly?"

"Preferably a certain isotope of plutonium. Uranium could work."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of this."

"Trust me."

I don't expect the conversation to end there, but apparently she considers that a satisfactory answer. Why? What the fuck?

"Why'd you bring me with you, anyway?" I ask after a few minutes. "The Geiger counter was done. You don't need me. Hell, you should want me dead."

"Maybe I want you around for your… what was it you said? Charming personality?"

"And stunning good looks," I remind her.

"Keep telling yourself that."

"Oh, don't lie to me, you know damn well I'm fucking gorgeous."

"If you say so."

"I _am!"_

"Sure."

"Hmph."

The next few minutes pass in silence, except me muttering swear words every few steps. Because ow. Ow. _Ow._

"Did that bother you?" I ask.

"Did what bother me?"

"You know. Me and Woohyun."

We pass one of the screens. A cold, heavy feeling settles in my stomach when I see Woohyun, Ash, and Merona greyed out. So Amaris came out victorious and is probably stalking around out there, and God only knows what she'll do to me if she gets me again. But Amelia won't let her.

Amelia hesitates. I'm tempted to give puppy-dog eyes a shot, but something tells me that won't fly anymore. I might've really blown it. Blown _what, _though? There was nothing to blow.

Well, no, there's always something to blow. But that's not the point right now. Focus, Ariel.

Amelia keeps looking straight ahead. "What right do I have to be mad at you?"

"Maybe not mad. But I didn't mean to make you upset. You can kiss me too if you want, would that help?"

"Ariel?"

"Yeah?"

"You know not all problems can be solved by letting people do… whatever… with you, right?"

I consider that. "Yeah, I know. I'm not exactly trying to end all hunger and disease by banging everyone in sight, you know? But it does seem to help with a lot of interpersonal problems. Admittedly in addition to causing a lot of them."

"Hmm," she says as we reach the workshop. Empty, thankfully. One of Caddis's half-finished dolls stares at us from a countertop.

"… You sure you don't want to kiss me, though?" I ask.

Amelia frowns. "Do you _want _me to kiss you?"

"It'd be nice."

I mean it. It doesn't even have to be a raunchy kiss. Hell, I'd settle for a hug. Or she could play with my hair if she wanted, or…

Okay, what the fuck is _with _me today? But I actually want that hug, I really do. This place seems fifty times creepier than I remember.

"I don't think this is a good time," Amelia finally says, poking around the dark room.

I wait patiently for her to hem and haw and change her mind. It doesn't sink in for a while that she's not going to. I realize with dismay that I'm really disappointed, and not just on a physical, I've-only-kissed-one-person-in-over-a-week-and-I'm-getting-twitchy level. I want her to want me. Maybe _want _isn't the right word for what I want her to do.

Something about her, that combination of empathy and gentleness and quiet danger, makes me want to be around her more than anyone else. I want her to feel the same way about me, but I'm not sure what about me she's supposed to like. I'm making a conscious effort to not do the airhead thing, but what else do I have? If I'm not the prize everyone wants, then what am I, other than a skinny, cringing coward? I'm trying to offer her something real, but I don't know if I've got anything worth giving.

But I don't think it matters. She sees right through me. Has from the beginning. And whatever she sees, she thought I was worth saving, and it feels like being handed a kitten when I expected a slap in the face.

I can't deny it anymore. The worst possible thing has happened: I've caught a bad case of the feelings.

**In which Foaly attempts to move a relationship along by 3295732857% in one scene.**


	42. Angrier Than Usual

**Viss Bardier, District Three, 17**

Luka is gone.

I'm scared and stressed and angrier than usual but not even a little bit surprised. What was I expecting, leaving him alone for ten minutes to look for water? Of _course _he'd fucking vanish into thin air. Probably saw something shiny outside the storage room and went chasing it and forgot which goddamn direction he came from. I don't know how he survived sixteen years. His dad would happily die for him, I guess, plus he's not from City Eleven. He wouldn't last an hour in City Eleven.

I keep up the mental rant because it helps me stay calm. I don't want to think that right now Amaris could have a blade at his throat, Fenris's huge hands could be around his neck… the mental images fill me with cold, nauseating fear. I saw his name glowing on the screen outside half a second ago, but any second, he could be snuffed out.

The pack, shirt, and coat are here. His knife is gone. I'm guessing he heard something, looked down the hallway and saw it coming, and ran. But _where? _I was right around the corner and I didn't see him or anything else. I know I would've noticed Luka running past, and I think even he knows to run _away _from whatever scared him, which means I walked right past whatever it was on its way toward him.

Unless…

There's stuff on the floor that wasn't there before. A little cardboard box. Broken glassware. Bottles of chemicals. Like a scuffle, only there's no blood, no dead monsters, no dead Luka. And most of the shelves are undisturbed. But when I lean down to look at the bottom shelf of one of the units, it's almost empty, what's left tipped and shoved aside, and the vent grating on the wall behind it is open. Luka-sized. Whether or not it's Viss-sized is a good question.

So something came from the hallway and almost cornered him, but he found a way out. Did it follow him in there?

I pull the door of the little closet-room shut. The last thing I need is someone or something following _me _in there.

I drop to my hands and knees with a scowl, stuffing Luka's shirt in my pocket and snatching the flashlight from the bag. Everything else will have to stay; if I fit it's gonna be close and I think speed will prove to be important.

I do fit. It is in fact close. I'd like to see the guys who love big hips so much try having them for a while. It's not actually that fun.

I've barely made it two feet when I hit an intersection. "Luka?" I yell into the darkness. Stealth is worthless if I can't find him.

There's a ruckus from the left in response to my voice. I swing my flashlight that way and almost brain a monster. That's not good, I think as I pin its head to the wall and slit its throat. They're easily dealt with once you get over the shock of how freaky they are, but Luka's knife arm is almost immobilized thanks to Caddis. Plus he's squeamish.

I chuck the dead monster down the duct to the right. Hopefully it'll dissuade any more coming from that way.

Moving through the vent is infuriatingly slow. My patience gets considerably shorter when I start crawling through blood. Mostly black. Some red. Fuck. There are massive dents in the walls and ceiling. If he's dead, he put up a hell of a fight.

I pass a few more intersecting ducts. Dead monster in one of them, like the attacking ones shoved their fallen predecessor out of the way. At the next intersection there's a trail of red blood going in two directions, but only a few feet in one of the two. He turned around, I think, so he could face them with the knife. Another dead monster. More red blood mixed with the black.

Then I find something worse: Luka's knife, lying in a puddle of what can only be his blood. They disarmed him and forced him back before he could grab it again. Fuck. I speed up even though I know damn well the odds aren't good.

I turn a corner and see light, coming from the bottom of the vent. A grating on the ground is open. I look down.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

It's a two-story drop to the cement floor of some kind of warehouse. There are shelves, but they're not close enough. Luka is down there. He's not moving. There are three monsters, and one of them is just kind of gnawing on him, making his limp body move unnaturally.

Well, I know which one is breaking my fall.

My boots hit the monster's shoulders with a satisfying _crack. _More bones break as it hits the cement with me on top of it. My ankle hurts, but I can tell it's not broken, so I don't care. The other two monsters lunge at me. I stab one, club the other with the flashlight, and then stab that one too.

Now the room is silent. Where are we? The bottom floor, I think, but I have no idea who or what else might be down here.

Luka is facedown and covered in blood. The stitches I did for his back wound are mostly ripped open. His wrist looks broken. There's a jagged wound on his neck—bleeding, but not too much; they must have missed his jugular by a hair—and another on his calf. His forearms are more bloody than not, deep scratches scored from elbow to palm. That's aside from whatever damage the fall dealt him other than to his wrist. If I'm right that he was going backwards, he wouldn't have known the hole was there until he was falling out of it.

He's breathing but I still want to cry. I already know I'm too late. I can fight off as many monsters as it takes, but I can't save him from blood loss or infection. And there's going to be infection; I can tell just by looking.

I sink to the floor next to him and wonder where to begin.

**Kaya Redfell, District Seven, 18**

Luther is all about predictability. She knows it's only a matter of time until I chuck an axe at the back of her head. She expects me to try to kill her soon.

So I do something unorthodox, which just so happens to be what I should've done from the beginning.

"Look!" I yell, wide-eyed, pointing down the tunnel over Luther's shoulder. "A distraction!"

"What the–?"

I take off in the opposite direction. If I pulled a gun, I think her training would draw her eye straight to the motion and she'd shoot me dead. But for a split second, she doesn't know what to make of this—did she mishear me? Is there actually something there that I'm running away from?—and that's all I need to be around the corner. By the time she reaches the same corner, I'm around the next one. It wouldn't surprise me if her endurance is better than mine, but I'm fast, and soon I've left her far behind.

But, for what I'm well aware will be the last time, I know where she is. Roughly. And more importantly, I know where she isn't: the security booth. Which means that even if she expects me to go there, I have a grace period to get in and out before she shows up to kill me.

Now, I have my weaknesses. I can't swim. I hate public speaking. My grades are best described as "meh". But there is one thing I'm very good at, and that is fucking shit up with an axe.

I run into the security booth and smash the living hell out of every computer, monitor, and wire I see. Sparks fly. Screens glitch and go dead. No more security cameras for Luther. I know I've joined Ariel Sevasti on the list of people whose blood she's after, but hopefully I can just avoid her until someone else kills her. Or kills me.

So. I'm free, sort of, but now I'm also really, really paranoid. There's no sign of Luther in the hallway, but she could be anywhere. And thanks to me breaking the computers, those screens are dead, meaning that even if she didn't guess I'd go here in the first place, she knows I'm here now. She could be waiting right around the corner with a pistol and that creepy smile. And of course Ariel might _also _be after my blood, possibly with a Career or two in tow. Great. Thanks, Luther. Cute little hate triangle we've got going here.

The longer I wait, the more time I'm giving her to come up with some kind of evil plan. I run down the hallway to the right and up a flight of stairs. Everything's quiet.

Maybe _too _quiet.


	43. Still Dangerous

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

I feel sick.

I mean, I've felt sick since Castalia died, but now I feel worse. Headache, fever, nausea. A general desire to curl up in a ball on my bed and have my mom come rub my back.

But my mom isn't here in this dark, metal, barrel-lined vault. What I have instead is Atlas. Which is, admittedly, not actually that different. I'm pretty sure he would remind me to take my vitamins and eat my greens if there were any in the Arena.

"You don't look so good," the grumpy, crow-ish boy says right on cue, but he's not looking at me. I turn to find that Ted really _is _curled up in a ball. His red beard, finally more or less grown back in, makes the sickly shade of his skin look even worse, and his hair is falling out of its shoelace bun.

"I don't feel so good," Ted groans.

"I doubt it's anything contagious," Atlas says with a frown. "But–"

"I feel sick too," I put in.

"Oh," he says, clearly at a loss. "Well… me too, a little bit. Sick to your stomach?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"At least if we're all sick, we don't have to split up," I point out.

The corner of Atlas's lips twitch. "I guess that's one way of looking at it."

"None of my allies were sick, though. Did you guys run into anyone else before you found me?"

"Yeah, we ran into this massive clusterfuck–" He cuts himself off, sucking in a breath.

"What? Did you hear something?"

"No, I, uh… didn't mean to swear in front of you, sorry."

I consider that. "I already knew that word. I'm pretty sure I know all of them. What's that behind you?"

Atlas whips around and tilts his head when he sees what I noticed, a little box with buttons on it, definitely some kind of gadget. "This wasn't here before, was it?"

"I didn't see it."

"Huh."

He pokes it carefully, then picks it up when it doesn't explode. I scoot in to study the thing. It doesn't look like any of Mom's gadgets.

Atlas flips the power switch. A little light blinks green for a split second, then turns red.

_Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick…_

My eyes widen. "We need to leave. Right now."

"What? Why?"

"It's radioactive in here."

"You mean this thing-?"

"Yeah. Radiation detector."

Atlas nods and heaves Ted to his feet easily. I think his personality has kept the Capitol from paying too much attention to him, especially next to in-your-face people like the Five boy. But Atlas is tall and handsome just like him and the Four boy, and my money would be firmly on him in a fight.

"Take the clicky thing," Atlas says.

I nod, grab it, and dart out the door. Atlas follows, pushing a stumbling Ted in front of him.

"How come I'm the only one who's half-dead?" Ted grumbles as Atlas yanks the door shut after us.

"Did you stay on the surface longer?" I ask. "I think it was radioactive up there, too. You might've already taken a lot."

"Yeah, I did," he sighs. "Fuck."

Atlas gives him a dirty look.

"Aw, c'mon, she said she already knew that one."

_Clickclickclickclickclickclick…_

"Fuck," I mutter.

"Language!" Atlas protests.

I scowl. "Didn't I hear you telling the escort to grab that potted cactus and go fuck herself in the-?"

"Forget it. We need to move."

It's quickly apparent that Ted is too dizzy to run fast. Atlas may be strong, but Ted is a solidly-built dude, too big to carry. But we end up with a decent arrangement: Ted leans on Atlas, and I run ahead with the detector thingy, taking a few steps down every tunnel and seeing whether it's better or worse down there.

I can't quite remember what the thing is called. I don't even know how I know what it does. I probably saw it in a movie or something. But I've been around enough science gadgets to have a general, intuitive idea of how the readouts work, and I know that as long as that little light stays red, we're in trouble.

I could be imagining it, but I swear my headache is getting worse. I really might throw up. Poor Ted. From what I've seen of him, he's the kind of person to act like it's two percent as bad as it actually is.

The light flicks green for a second.

"Hey guys, this way!" I yell.

Atlas's olive skin turns a few shades paler. "Shh!" he hisses.

"Oh yeah," I whisper, raising the pistol and listening for monsters. No sign of them. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

I turn to see where they are and almost have a heart attack. Turns out there's a monster after all, a particularly sneaky one, creeping up on Atlas with its huge eyes locked on the back of his neck. I _might _be able to shoot it without hitting the boys, but the noise of the gun will draw every monster in the Arena. If Atlas turns to fight the monster, Ted will be in the way and it'll probably bite him and I can't go through that again.

"Knife," I whisper, running at the monster. Atlas holds it out hilt-first without hesitating. I snatch it as I pass him and drive it between the monster's ribs. It collapses with a rattling hiss.

I'm happy they're so inhuman. Killing them isn't hard.

Atlas blinks and accepts the knife back. "Nice."

"Thanks."

I guess that monster was the only one. When I'm convinced there are no more coming, I jog ahead again. We make it a decent distance with no incident. The light flickers to green more and more often and stays that way longer.

I peek around a corner into an intersecting tunnel and have my second near-heart attack in as many minutes. A tall, wiry blond girl is poking around at the end of the tunnel, holding a device in the doorways. Working her way toward us, too far for me and my questionable aim to shoot her, but probably close enough for her to shoot me. Her name stuck with me, for some reason: Amelia Bailey, from District One. Decidedly a Career. Just because the pack fell apart doesn't mean the ones still prowling around aren't still dangerous.

I hold up a hand. Atlas and Ted stop right before they would've walked into her line of sight.

_Career,_ I mouth.

_Fuck,_ Atlas mouths back.

The light on our radiation counter turns red again. We _need _to move. We can't go back the way we came and she'll walk right into us if we stay here.

_When I wave, go, _I say silently. Atlas nods. I stick my head around the corner again, crouching down so I'm in the shadows and not at eye level. Amelia's eyes slide right over me. She finds a room she seems interested in and leans into it.

I wave at Atlas. He drags Ted across the end of her tunnel. Not quietly enough. Amelia reappears in the tunnel, tense, gun drawn, squinting in our direction. My heart sinks when she comes striding toward us.

I should shoot her, but I can't. Maybe Atlas has it in him to kill—probably, I can't help thinking—but I don't know if he even knows how to use a gun and we don't have time to discuss it.

"Run," I say out loud, sprinting across the end of the tunnel. I hear a gunshot, but I don't feel anything, so I operate on the assumption that she missed me.

Atlas swears—I was wrong; there _was _at least one swear word I didn't know—and takes off, more or less dragging Ted. Ted is trying to do the whole leave-me-save-yourselves thing, but Atlas doesn't seem to be having it.

I find a turn that makes the detector light turn green and wave them down it just as Amelia comes around the corner. I fire the pistol above her head. She pulls back. Hopefully she'll hesitate before leaning out again. I start down the next tunnel after the boys.

"Oh, fuck you," Amelia's voice grumbles. At first I assume she's talking to me, but then I hear tearing, slashing sounds. More monsters. I never thought I'd be happy to have them on the scene, but right now, with any luck, they and Amelia will sort of cancel each other out.

We scramble up a flight of stairs and around a few corners. No sign of monsters or Amelia.

"Wow," I say breathlessly.

"Ow," Ted adds.

"Fuck," Atlas concludes.


	44. This Wasn't The Plan

**Incoming melodrama and implication of suicide, sex trafficking, and other cheerful stuff. Yaaaaay Hunger Games!**

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

In retrospect, I suspect we _did _wait too long before going down the hatches. I feel excellent today, and I think it's because I spent the last few days with a slight headache and fever, which I didn't notice until they were gone.

"You're awfully chipper," Ariel remarks as he pulls the door open and I all but bounce into the room.

I didn't like leaving him behind, but he promised he could rig the door so anyone who came in without knocking would be screwed. I asked about the giant hole in the ceiling. He shrugged and said he'd bank on the Gamemakers leaving him alone for a while. I tried to leave him the pistol. He refused.

"Well, I'm happy you're still alive. And I think I was a little sick from the Cornucopia, but now I'm better."

Ariel sighs. "I should've stayed with you guys. Couple days of having a headache beats a crossbow bolt and Amaris going off on me."

"You never did tell us how you got there," I remember, sliding the backpack off my shoulders and handing it to him. "When Ash shot you."

"Can we not talk about that?"

He's got that fragile look again, like he's right on the edge of something and a tiny push will knock him down.

"Okay. Sorry."

"It's… I…" He swallows hard and takes a deep breath, clearly steeling himself for something. "Actually, you know what, I should just… Look, you know my District partner?"

Something tells me not to use her name. "Yeah?"

"She's pure evil and she's going to come after me."

"You, specifically? Why?"

"Because for reasons I honestly don't understand, she hates me and likes to make me suffer."

"So she was the one who…?"

"Yeah. Among other things. _Please _don't ask."

Now he looks sad and angry and helpless and it's breaking my heart because I remember how self-assured he was at his Reaping—cocky, really—and I can barely believe he's the same person.

Ariel flops into a chair, his head in his hands. "Fucking hell, I'm a mess, huh?" he mutters, more to himself than me.

"It's the Hunger Games," I point out.

"You're doing fine."

"You've been unlucky."

"Luck nothing. I've got an evil genius after me and the Gamemakers will let her have me because the Capitol fucking gets off on it," he spits.

"They, um… they can probably hear you," I point out, because I have no idea how else to respond to that. I remember his interview and I have a nasty feeling he's right. Which gives me a really, _really _nasty thought. If he wins…

"Whatever. Fuck, I should've let Amaris mutilate me. Or done it myself, maybe then I could at least die some normal fucking way and they won't feel compelled to let _her_ fucking torture me to death when she gets me again–"

"Ariel, she's not going to get you again, okay?"

"She will if they want her to," he says miserably. "Look, I trust you. But you can't save me from the Gamemakers and I really don't want you to die trying, all right? So please don't. I mean that."

"… Really?"

"I'm surprised too," he grumbles, tapping a soldering iron on the countertop faster and faster. "Believe me, this wasn't the plan."

"I don't think this was anyone's plan."

For the first time, I really _do _believe him. I know he started out trying to charm me into being his personal Career bodyguard, but I don't think that's the case anymore. Mostly because there's an empty bottle of painkillers on the counter and tears in his eyes and the poor guy was borderline hysterical a minute ago, so either he's the best actor in history or he means everything he says.

On impulse, I hug him even though he's sitting down, pulling him in so the side of his head is pressed against my stomach. He jumps and then all but melts. The soldering iron stops tapping. He's shaking, but I don't think it's fear or anything like that. No wonder he got so worked up so fast.

"Ariel, you need to stop with the painkillers."

"I can't."

"Yeah, you can."

"I think you have me mistaken for someone with willpower and moral fiber," he mumbles. "And also maybe someone without a hole clean through their leg. And a few third-degree burns, and a broken rib, and–"

"You need to go easier on the painkillers," I amend.

He sighs. "I'll try."

"No working on your gadget tonight, all right?"

"Then what am I supposed to do all night?"

I roll my eyes. Ariel, no matter how tired and panicky and drugged-up, is still Ariel. "Sleeping comes to mind. You haven't slept in days, have you? Anyway, you should probably stop with the double entendres and so on."

"Aw, come on, you know I don't mean it. Or I mean, I totally do mean it, but I'm not actually expecting anything."

"No, I mean… never mind."

He looks up at me, frowning. "What are you talking about?"

"It's nothing."

He leans back out of the hug and blessedly puts the soldering iron down. "No, you had a reason for saying that. What happens if I crack dirty jokes?"

"Just… it might not be the best thing, getting the Capitol's attention… like that."

"Little late for that, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it probably is," I say with a wince. Honestly, I've been trying not to think about it, but I'm a little worried about falling prey to the same pitfall if I win. It's pretty common for District One Victors, and I'm a… novelty.

"Amelia," he says sharply. "Is there something I should be worried about? Other than the Gamemakers going out of their way to fuck me up for ratings?"

"I really think we should talk about this later." Sometime when he's relatively calm and sober and didn't just get done saying he should mutilate himself to get the Capitol the hell away from him, that is.

"No, tell me now. I'd rather just know, okay?" he says quietly, but from the tightness in his voice and the defensiveness of his posture I think he already _does _know.

I hesitate. "The Victors sometimes, um… If a lot of people in the Capitol, you know, like them…"

"If I win, I'll be a classy escort whether I like it or not, is that what you're trying to say?"

"Er… yes."

Ariel takes a deep breath, nodding slowly, staring through the wall. "Oh."

"Yeah, it's… suboptimal."

"Suboptimal," he repeats slowly. Something about the look on his face makes me turn so he can't reach the pistol on my belt. Not so much sad as frenzied. I didn't expect him to take this well, exactly, but he seems more upset than I expected.

"Sorry," I say helplessly.

"You know, if you'd told me that a few weeks ago, I would've said it sounded great," he says with a laugh that's more like a sob. "The good life, right? Would've fucking walked right into it. At least now I know I should do whatever the hell it takes to–"

"Ariel, hey, don't–"

"Don't talk like that?" he says, his voice clearly about to crack. "Look, I don't _want _to die, okay? I'm fucking terrified, I've _been _fucking terrified ever since I got the slightest clue what this was going to be like, but I can't win. I mean, even if I _could _win, I-I… those _freaks…"_

I knew I should've let him sober up before telling him. The look in his eyes is downright crazed. His pupils are huge, and I'm not sure it's just because the room is so dim. Could he have gotten into something other than the painkillers?

"Are you scared to die?" he says in that voice that means people are about to burst into tears.

"Good _lord, _Ariel, calm down, no one's dying!"

"You know damn well someone's dying. _I'm _gonna die. But you might too. I don't want you to if you don't want to, but you might. And I am and I-I mean, I don't want to die, I really don't, but I can't– I mean, they–"

It finally occurs to me to kneel so I'm not towering over him. "Ariel, you're not thinking straight, okay? Just go to sleep." I take the opportunity to sneakily unplug the soldiering iron.

"I-I don't think I can." He's still thousand-mile-staring straight through me. He's shaking visibly now, much worse than he was a few minutes ago. Almost like whatever he's on is just working its way into his blood now.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"You drank some kind of lab chemical, didn't you? Right before I came in?"

"I'm sorry!" he cries. "I'm fucking pathetic, I know, I can't last six goddamn hours, I don't know why I–"

"Forget that, what was it? Was it enough to kill you?"

"Didn't mean for it to be, but that'd be alright."

"What _was _it, Ariel?"

He bites his lip and looks away.

I grab him by the shoulders and immediately feel guilty when he cowers away from me. I can feel his heartbeat thrumming at a million miles an hour. "Okay, look, you know what? If you decide, _sober, _that you'd rather die than let the Capitol have you, that's up to you. But you are sure as hell not making that decision while you're like this. Now _what was it?_"

He points at a few bottles shakily. "Diluted some of the carbamate. A lot. Plus some of… whatever's in there." Something about the way he says it tells me he knows damn well what's in there. "And a tiny bit of methanol. And the painkillers."

"… Holy shit."

"I don't _think _it'll kill me," he says in a small, apologetic voice.

"What's carbamate?"

He swallows hard. "It's, um. It's usually used as an insecticide. It's a nerve agent."

I splutter for a second. "Why do you _do _this?"

"I've got daddy issues, okay?"

I want to bang my head against the wall. "No! Not okay!" I yell at him. He cringes again. "In what universe is this a good way to deal with them?"

"I don't know!" he wails. "I'm sorry, okay? Please stop yelling, I just… just let me…" His eyes flutter closed and he sways in the chair.

I realize what's going to happen a second before it does. Ariel topples over sideways, out cold. I catch him and lay him on the ground.

I don't know what to do with the unlabeled bottle. The first one he pointed to—carbamate—is labeled as toxic, but he said he diluted it and that he didn't mean to take enough to kill him, so hopefully he knows what he's doing. I know methanol is some kind of alcohol, but that's about it. Trying to make him throw up while he's unconscious seems like a bad idea. I guess all I can do is wait. And swear at his unconscious body.

Only something has appeared in the thirty seconds I took my eyes off him, glittering on his chest. A syringe of something. It's got to be a sponsor gift. They may well know exactly what he drank and how much of it, but I suppose they can't know for sure whether his body can take it or not, and apparently they want to make sure he'll be okay.

Which would be nice, except in light of the conversation we just had, their concern for him takes on a very dark cast indeed. And to send the antidote _now, _after he's unconscious, when he can't protest receiving it…

The thought crosses my mind that he might be the most dangerous tribute to share an Arena with, simply because they're not going to let him die. Whether he likes it or not.

But neither am I. Not right now, not like this. I give him the shot, not sure whether I'm doing it for me or for him, and his pulse steadies.

**Amaris da Costa, District Four, 17**

I found someone. Or maybe a mutt, but I doubt it.

I can't tell who—the whole room is full of wires, popping out of the walls and floor, hanging from the ceiling like jungle vines, blocking my view aside from the occasional flash of movement—but there's definitely someone here. I'm not usually one for the slow stalk, but I'm flexible. Actually, it's growing on me.

I creep through the wires, slipping between heavy, hanging cables, drawing closer and closer through the near-darkness. This is fun. Life is great. What a wonderful world.

I finally get a decent glance at the person: female, tall and muscular, with feline eyes that glitter when they catch the dim blue lights. One of those outer-District girls. Six, maybe?

Yeah, that's it. The kinda loony one Merona and I harassed during training. No Career, but not someone to underestimate, either.

The way she's looking around, though… she's up to something. On some kind of mission. I'm curious despite myself. What would she be concerned with, other than keeping her miserable self alive?

The girl freezes, cocking her head like she hears something. I listen hard and realize there are distant voices echoing through here. One male, one female, too quiet to make out the words. It's not Amelia and Bitch, I'd recognize them, but aside from that I have no idea. And come to think of it, I think there are actually two guys, but one barely talks.

The girl creeps up to a vent in the wall, strips of white light falling across her face. She grins. Found the source of the voices, I guess. Sure enough, she waits until they've vanished completely before tearing the vent grille from the wall.

I _could _throw a knife at her, but I don't feel like it quite yet. I want to know what the hell she thinks she's doing. An outer-District girl chasing down a three-person alliance? What?

I expect her to make an undignified scramble through the vent. It's not much bigger than her, after all. What she does instead is take a few steps back, get a running start, and dive headlong through it. Instead of the expected _thud _of her hitting the ground on the other side, I hear her footsteps vanishing down the hallway outside, like she pulled off a fucking dive roll.

Okay. Homegirl out there is a ninja. Duly noted.

I dive out after her—I don't need to see her landing to know mine was better—and run in the direction it sounded like she went.

I have no idea where in the Arena we are. Hell, I don't even know what floor we're on. It's relatively clean and well-lit, almost disconcertingly so, like that hospital-in-a-horror-movie aesthetic. The kind of white walls and spotless stainless steel that exists for the sole purpose of getting splattered with blood. Four whole people's worth of it.

_Amaris, no, _says Jaiven's voice in my head.

"Amaris, _yes," _I hiss under my breath. I mean, come on, four people? That's historic. That might be even more fun than Merona.

I knew that bitch was going to betray me. Knew it from the start. But I'm _still _mad she killed Woohyun. I was really looking forward to slitting his scrawny, sassy throat.

Whatever. It was a great fight, definitely making the highlight reel of the Games. I don't usually admit things like this, but she was actually in my league as a swordswoman. Her fatal mistake was starting the fight while her back was to the pit. She also learned the hard way that, while she's taller, I'm stronger.

So I just backed her up, taking ground every time she checked over her shoulder to see how much space she had left. Simple. One step after another, never giving an inch, a constant advance underlying the dance of stabs and parries. And down she went.

She might've lived, too. She's got the reflexes of a cat. I was pretty impressed when I looked down after her and found her hanging from the third-floor railing. Too bad for her the creepy, skinny Five girl and her sidekick were right there. For a second I was afraid they'd help her, but the creepy one caught my eye, smiled, and long-live-the-king'd Merona into the pit. Which, it turns out, is full of slow-burning acid or something like it. I timed it from when she hit the bottom to when her name went grey: forty-one seconds.

Good to know.


	45. Execution

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

It's kind of a vicious pattern in my life. I convince myself, over and over, that the universe can't possibly throw anything at me that's more physically painful than what I've already experienced, so there's nothing out there to be afraid of. It's never true. I break my arm, think I can call it a day, and then get thrown halfway into a fire and end up with third-degree burns on it. I crack my ribs jumping down the stairs, concede that it sucks, and then get them stomped on.

And then this goes and happens.

It _sucks._

Viss rears back when I open my eyes.

"Boo," I say weakly. "Ow."

"Sorry."

An interesting, urgent thought occurs to me. "Wait."

"What?"

"Am I dead?"

"What? No."

"Oh."

"What makes you think you're dead?"

"Well, I fell at least thirty feet after getting a few arteries ripped open, so."

"Well, you're not."

"Oh. Cool."

"Yeah."

"How'd that happen, anyway?" I muse. "Me not being dead? Last I remember, I was getting eaten by monsters."

"Sponsors."

"Sponsors saved me from monsters?"

"No. Uh, that was me," she says with a modest shrug. "Sponsors gave me medicine to give you, I guess."

I glance down at my wrist. It's not too terrible, but there's enough swelling and purplish skin to tell me I was on the edge of something nasty. "Antibiotics, you mean? And this is what I look like _after _Capitol medicine?"

"Yep."

"What'd those things eat, some kind of bioweapon?"

"Probably."

"You're the best, you know that?"

Viss blinks. "Uh… thanks. Think you can get up? I found a Geiger counter on the floor by the door and we're being irradiated straight to hell right now, but I was afraid to pick you up for if you had internal injuries or whatever."

"What… Why the hell didn't you leave?" I protest.

She scowls. "Because. Can you get up or not?"

"I can try. Bad juju down here, anyway."

Viss glances over her shoulder. "Yeah, I think so too," she says, dropping her voice like she's afraid something will overhear. And now I wish I hadn't said it, like mentioning the Mysterious Bad Thing will prompt said Thing to come rip our heads off.

With the help of Viss and some spectacularly colorful language, I manage to stagger to my feet. I'm almost too dizzy to stand up. I don't think I was over Caddis banging my head into the floor before this happened.

And now I'm thinking about Caddis. Fuck. A guilty stomachache is just what I need right now.

"C'mon, move," Viss says uneasily, looking behind us again. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Maybe it's all in my head, but I feel like we're in serious danger, and Viss seems to be picking up on the same bad vibes. I think the whole first floor is a no-go.

My wrist is in a makeshift splint, I notice belatedly. Of my non-dominant hand, which I guess is a lucky break—ha-ha—by Hunger Games standards. She bandaged everything she could reach. It's the clumsiest first-aid job I've seen in my life, which is weirdly endearing. I can picture her grumbling swear words and tangling her hands in the bandages as she did it.

She's not as heartless as she likes to think. She's just scared to get attached to anything. Lost too much, I guess. Which makes me feel beyond guilty for letting her get attached to me, because realistically, I'm just one more thing she's going to lose. Unless she does something stupid trying to save me, which I wouldn't put past her.

"Hey, Viss?" I say as she drags me in the direction of the door.

"Mm?"

"How'd you get down here fast enough to save me?"

"How the hell do you think? I jumped."

"Can you, uh… Any chance you could, y'know, _not _do stuff like that?"

"No."

I blink. "What d'you mean, no?"

"You know exactly what I fucking mean. You're gonna win."

"Hey, no, don't you–"

She sucks in a breath. "The radiation levels are going up. Shut up and move."

I do. It hurts like a motherfucker. I think more of my body is bruised than not at this point. But we're almost to the door.

"Still going up, really fast," she says hurriedly. "Can't be environmental, something's fucking _coming."_

I glance behind us as Viss wrestles the door open. The only tunnel I can see, at the far end of the warehouse, is black and empty.

Wait. No, it isn't.

"Oh, holy _fu–"_

Viss grabs me and all but drop-kicks me through the doorway before I can fully express the sentiment. She slams it after us, hauls me up the stairs—I don't think my feet touch the ground—and into some kind of office, where she drops me in a heap.

"Ow," I observe.

"You saw something?"

"Yeah."

"What?"

"I have no earthly idea. And I wasn't done telling you not to jump out of ventilation systems, you know."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"But–"

Viss takes a deep, angry breath through her nose. "Look," she growls. "No one cares about me, all right? That's not self-pity, that's a stone-cold fact. You don't count."

"Why don't I count?"

"Because you'll be either missing me or dead and I'd rather you miss me, okay? If _you _die, you leave this fucking massive, gaping wound behind. Your dad. Your neighbor lady. Me. What the hell am I supposed to do if you die?"

"Keep trying to win."

"No. I wouldn't want to."

I hesitate. "That's, uh… not really the foundation of a healthy relationship."

For a second I think she's going to strangle me, but she takes a deep breath and returns to her usual calm-but-in-a-barely-restrained-sort-of-way bearing. "Believe it or not, Luka, the Hunger Games don't tend to spin those off and I'm not really suited to be in one. So yeah, you _are _all I care about, because what else am I supposed to fucking care about?"

"You could get a dog. Or some nice houseplants–"

Her face twists and she slaps me. Hard.

"… Sorry?" I say quietly, rubbing my cheek and trying to blink the tears out of my eyes before she sees them. "I didn't mean–"

Viss takes yet another slow, deep breath and closes her eyes. "Don't apologize. I shouldn't have done that. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay."

"It's not, but there's nothing I can do about it now. I just… Look, I guess it's stupid to ask someone like you to just accept that I'm going to do whatever it takes so you win."

"Yeah, I can't really cosign that, sorry."

"But I wanna make damn sure you know that sacrificing yourself for me would be the worst possible thing you could do to me. A dog doesn't make up for you, alright? Not for me, certainly not for your dad. Got it?"

"… Okay." My face still stings.

"Now get on your stomach if you can so I can stitch your back together. Again."

I groan despite myself. "These sponsors of ours—who I'm sure are benevolent and wise and very good-looking indeed—uh, they didn't happen to include any anesthetic in whatever they gave you, did they?"

"Nope."

"Fuck."

"Sorry."

**Ted Walsh, District Six, 17**

I have no idea Reyna is behind me until she whomps me over the head with a length of pipe.

Des makes a surprised squawking noise and fires a shot at the ceiling. Atlas takes the slightly more productive route of whipping out a knife and diving at her. For my part, I fall over and stay there. My vision is blurry and I'm bleeding. I don't think she actually put a dent in my head, but I'd rather not touch it and find out.

It's a pretty serious fight for two outer-District kids. Atlas got good with a knife during training, I think, and he's a big dude who knows how to throw a punch. And then there's Daddy's Little Peacekeeper, who must have picked up some serious combat training following her dad around. It hurts to watch. He cuts her arm. She hits him in the face with the pipe. He punches her in the gut. She catches his hand and breaks his wrist.

Atlas stumbles backward. Reyna reaches over her shoulder and my heart sinks, expecting a gun. It's not a gun. She's got a fucking _whip._

Atlas barely jumps away in time to avoid the first strike. "Des, shoot her," he snarls.

She can't. I can tell at a glance. But she's not one to just stand there, either. As Reyna lashes out at Atlas again, Des ducks in from the side and tries to tackle her.

No sell. Reyna's too big. But she's off-balance, and by the time she wrenches her arm free, Atlas is already flying at her. And maybe Reyna can stay on her feet through a hit from Des, but Atlas is a different story. All three of them go tumbling to the ground.

"Oh," Atlas says weakly.

At first my heart sinks, thinking he landed on his own knife or stabbed Des or something. I struggle to my knees even though my head is pounding, wondering if I'm preparing myself to fight Reyna or run away.

But Reyna's not the problem. Atlas is staring at the tunnel behind me, his eyes a little wider than usual, which I've learned is his equivalent of screaming bloody murder.

I turn around slowly. "Oh," I say.

Amaris is peeking around the corner at the end of the tunnel, watching us curiously. If she had popcorn, she'd be eating it.

"Hi," she says with a delighted grin.

"Des, run," Atlas says quietly.

"_Both _of you, run," I object. It's not bravery at this point, it's logic. I can't outrun Amaris or Reyna right now, end of story. Neither can Des, probably, but that's different.

Atlas hesitates as Reyna thrashes under him, spitting curses, and Amaris skips up the hallway.

Suddenly, Fenris.

Amaris stops dead as a huge, snarling figure barrels from one of the dark office rooms lining the hallway. The wolfman stands there halfway between us and her, breathing hard, like we woke him up from his nap and he can't decide who to attack.

"Guys," I say again, calmly and quietly. "_Run."_

Atlas gives me a sad look, takes Des's hand, and runs.

I sigh, studying my remaining three companions and wondering which one will get to me first. This should be interesting.

Something silver flashes past my face. Atlas yells and falls with a knife in his leg. That's ominous. I'm sure Amaris could've killed him with that throw, but she didn't, which means she's the type to play with her food before she eats it.

Atlas pulls it out and keeps running, vanishing around a corner with Des. He won't make it far, from how much he's bleeding, but maybe far enough.

Or maybe not, I amend as Fenris hurdles Reyna with surprising grace and takes off after them. Because he smells blood, I wonder?

So that leaves me with the crazy bitches from hell. Amaris catches my eye, smiles, and turns her attention to Reyna, who still looks a little shell-shocked, presumably from the three hundred pounds or so of wolfman that just went soaring over her head. But she gets up, arranging her face into its usual scowl and cracking the whip like she means business.

Amaris laughs. "Kinky. You and Bitch oughta hang out. Except no, because you're dead."

Reyna frowns. "Who?"

"Forget it." Amaris draws a sword and charges at her.

Okay. Well, this is nice. My vision goes black if I try to stand, so I guess I'll just casually scoot in the general away-from-here direction.

Reyna's fight with Atlas was serious, but this one is brutal. Reyna gets Amaris across the face with the whip, opening a long, bloody cut. Amaris slashes the whip in two, only for Reyna to catch her sword against the wall and snap it with the pipe. Amaris rips it from her hand and chucks it at me. I'm too dizzy to catch it and it smacks me in the face, knocking me over again.

Ow. Was that really necessary?

They trade a few punches, then hit the ground and start grappling. Reyna's stronger, but Amaris is more skilled, it looks like. They roll across the hallway, slamming each other's heads into the ground, trading the advantage back and forth. Amaris gets her forearm across Reyna's neck, but Reyna maneuvers it away, flips them over so she's on top, and starts elbowing Amaris in the face.

I keep scooting away. With any luck—okay, maybe a fair amount of it—they'll kill each other and I can at least die in some manner not involving a sadistic teenage girl. Because if they don't, I'm fucked. No question. I vaguely remember from training that radiation poisoning can more or less make your nerves stop working right, and combined with the hit in the head, it's too much. My legs just won't move how I tell them.

"You're not… allowed… to train," Reyna grits out. "It's against… the law."

"_You _trained," Amaris pouts through a bloody lip, flipping Reyna over her shoulder.

Reyna tumbles and jumps to her feet. "That's different."

"Why?"

"Because it _is!" _Reyna roars, faking a haymaker and sending an uppercut into Amaris's chin instead. She catches Amaris's arm as she falls.

_Crack._

Ooh.

"Oh, you _bitch!" _Amaris shrieks, cradling her broken arm. "Nobody follows the fucking law!"

Reyna follows her to the ground, drawing a fist back. "Well they _should!"_

Amaris catches the blow with her good arm and twists Reyna off-balance. "Not even the Capitol!"

Reyna tries to pull her arm free, but falls onto her side. "Yes they _do!"_

Amaris laughs crazily and pins her down. "You know what's against the law? Murder. What do you call that, them putting us in here?"

"Justice," Reyna hisses.

"Like hell they care about justice. They want a show. You know how many people I've killed?" Amaris whispers. "Four. Four people. I'm a bad person, aren't I? So if they cared about justice, I'd be dead."

"I'll kill you."

"They'd let you if you were right. But you know what's gonna happen instead?" Amaris coos, pulling a knife from inside her coat. "You're gonna be number five. Right… about… now."

Reyna thrashes wildly and manages to free one of her arms from under Amaris's knees. Not soon enough. Amaris's back is blocking my view, but I don't have to see to know she just slit Reyna's throat.

I always thought that wouldn't be such a bad way to go. Not by Hunger Games standards, certainly. But Reyna is choking and twitching and the pool of blood just keeps growing and I can't look away. I feel sick. This can't be real. Now Amaris is standing up and walking toward me in blurry slow-motion, smiling, but she can't really kill me, this isn't real, something will stop her, I can't really be about to die in a bright, formerly clean hallway God knows how far underground, she'll stop, something will stop her, _please–_

The lights go out.

"What?" Amaris's voice mutters somewhere in the blackness. In some weird way, I'm suddenly happy to have her around. At least she's human. More or less. If something comes, maybe she can fight it.

It's not just the lights, I realize. It's dead silent. The constant background hum of what sounds like machinery—_what _machinery, exactly, I have no idea—is gone. I can hear myself breathing. Which means Amaris can, too.

A screen down the hallway clicks on. It blinks a nonsense, glitchy pattern, then a picture. Some kind of bird, gold, flying across a circle.

The screen goes black. There's a distant whirring noise and the lights come back on. Amaris's face is an inch from mine.

"Boo," she says. She grabs my hair and forces my head back and it's not so much a murder as an execution. "And that makes six."


	46. Chemistry

**Fun fact of the chapter: the demon core was actually used for a detonation in 1946, but I'm pretending that didn't happen. I'm also taking some liberties with critical mass because I figure it's the future and they know things I don't. (Critical mass is the amount of stuff required for the stuff to go boom, sort of, but I'll explain it in more detail later.)**

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

In my defense, I at least _kind _of had a reason for it. I do usually know better than to drink methanol, at least. Enough of it can make you go blind. There are more fun ways to go blind, if that old wives' tale is true, which it isn't, thank God.

Anyway.

What really happened was that I stood in the middle of the room, took my best guess at where the camera was, and said out loud that if I had any sponsors, I would really appreciate some kind of drug that made the mind go hazy in small amounts. I figured they'd give it to me, assuming it was for me and hoping I'd take plenty of it. Guess I must be cute when I'm helpless. How fucking flattering.

Well, they were wrong. When the unlabeled jug of chemicals appeared of of nowhere behind me, I did indeed drink some of it, just to make sure it worked like I wanted it to. But the rest of it isn't for me. Just like the handcuffs. Because I still remember her taunting me, asking what I meant by saying I'd 'get' her, wondering if I'm going to sink to her level. She wouldn't care if I did. She doesn't think there's anything I can do to hurt her.

She's fucking _wrong._

"Ariel?"

I crack one eye open with a groan.

"Awake for good this time?"

I open both eyes and lift my head weakly. I'm sprawled on my back on one of the lab counters. Amelia is tinkering with something right above my head. And I have the worst headache of my life, which is saying something. That was the problem with me testing the drug on myself: of course the Capitol played a dirty trick. It was the same stuff Luther gave me on the train. And apparently slightly-drugged-me realized that, panicked, and thought it would be a good idea to take _more _drugs as a means of escape from that exact flavor of intoxication. And then very-drugged me in turn decided to have a nervous breakdown and drink the rest of the lab. As one does.

It occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, I'm kind of fucked-up.

Amelia glances at me. "How do you feel?"

I just groan again instead of answering, rolling onto my stomach and head-butting whatever she's working on out of the way so her hands are on the back of my head instead. Sums up my feelings pretty well, I figure.

She makes a little huffing noise, but obliges, raking her fingers through my hair. "That's about what I thought."

It takes me a few tries to get a coherent sentence out. I feel like my whole body has been shot full of novocaine and I can't feel my tongue. Mostly the drugs, I'm sure, but Amelia's not helping."Y-You said I… for good this time? I mean, I, um. I woke up before?"

"Yeah. You threw up and cried a lot."

"Oh."

"You okay?"

"Fantastic. Is that a toaster?" I ask, glancing up and finally getting a good look at the thing she was working on.

"What? Oh, yeah. I was bored," she shrugs. "Don't forget that stuff I found is still in the backpack."

"You are a goddess among women," I declare, trying to swing a leg over the edge of the counter but losing my balance and toppling onto the floor. "Ow, fuck."

I can just _see _the slapstick framing on the Capitol televisions, my dumb ass having that split-second _oh shit _moment and plummeting off the screen. Highlight reel for sure.

"Are you-?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," I yawn, staggering across the room. Amelia appears from nowhere next to me and offers me an elbow. "Uh, thanks."

"Mhm. Maybe you should wait a while before working with radioactive stuff?"

"I go into the lab like this half the time," I say, waving her off as I unzip the backpack and pull out a little sphere of metal. "I'm a pro at drunk science; you should see… holy fuck."

There's a piece of masking tape on the metal, with writing on it: DEMON CORE

"What?" Amelia says, grabbing me automatically when I sway in place.

"Is… is this really the demon core?" I say, my voice a little more high-pitched than before. I turn the sphere around to read the piece of tape I felt on the other side: YES

Okay. I guess this is in fact the demon core.

"Should I be worried?" Amelia asks. "It wasn't any more radioactive than you said it should be–"

"It's not dangerous. Not to me. But it, uh, killed at least six people over two incidents."

"How?"

"Two of them fucked up. The other four were standing too close. But I don't fuck up, not like that."

"You can't even stand up straight," Amelia points out, one arm around my chest, keeping a wary eye on the metal sphere in my hands.

"I'll be fine. But, um… you should probably leave. For just in case. Go kill some people."

"So what you're saying is, you might _not _be fine."

"I mean, the safety gear here isn't exactly up to scratch," I shrug. "But I know what I'm doing. There's just no reason for you to get caught in it, on the off chance the something goes wrong. Anyway, for both of our sakes, all the other tributes…"

"I guess. _Please _be careful."

"Same to you."

I want to say more, but I shouldn't. No need to do that to either of us. To make her reject me, or, even worse, accept whatever it is I'm tempted to offer.

Amelia sighs and lets go of me. My back and chest feel cold where she was touching me and I immediately want to change my mind, but I can't. I've got one real skill and this is it. One crazy plan that they just might let me get away with. They want a show from me, well, I'll give them one.

Amelia picks up a sword and the pistol. I grab a soldering iron and a little wrench and go to work getting the huge, rusty old lathe working. A few minutes pass before I realize she hasn't left yet.

"What?" I ask, leaning around the machine to look at her.

"Nothing. Just… you really _can _do drunk science."

I shoot her my most winning smile. "Told you."

"That's impressive."

Something tells me she's saying it because she knows it's what I need to hear, but that almost makes it better. She bothers to understand me. I don't understand her, not the way she does me, but maybe there are little things here and there that I get. I'll never know what it's like to walk in her shoes, but I _do _know what it's like to encounter those people who look at you like you're disgusting and inhuman. People whose opinions you know damn well are useless, but their hatred clings to you, waiting to pounce, so in your weakest moments you start to wonder if they're right and you really _are _lesser somehow, deep-down cursed, ruining your own life. The closer they are to you, the more tightly their hate sticks.

But I don't know how to talk about any of that, so I just smile. "You flatterer."

Amelia shrugs and props her elbow on top of the lathe. "It's a habit with people I like."

"And I'm doing well enough to qualify, huh?"

"Sure. In fact, I'd even say we have…" She glances around pointedly at the radioactive stuff and bottles of reagents. "… Chemistry."

I bop her on the nose lightly with my wrench. "That was terrible."

"I know."

"Like, really, seriously awful."

"Mhm."

Wait. She's leaning forward. Pretty close. But just sort of hovering there, half-smiling, raising an eyebrow in a gentle _well? _expression. Of course I stare at her lips, because I have no impulse control, and her smile gets bigger. Is she teasing me? What's going on?

Oh. I'm supposed to initiate. Not because she's the type of girl who can't do it herself, but because she's seen enough of me to know at this point I wouldn't turn her down no matter what. I wouldn't dare. She's making sure I really want to.

Aw.

But there's no question, just the familiar shivery feeling at the base of my skull, dragging me against the lathe and into her reach. She's a bit taller than me and I have to scramble onto the base of the machinery to get there, my feet leaving the ground as I practically throw myself over the damn thing. It hurts my ribs but I don't care. I kiss her.

Amelia never escalates until I do first, but I'm breathless in seconds regardless. This is _different. _Maybe because it feels like something earned, not stumbled into or given easily or inflicted. Maybe because I'm still terrified and for a second I feel safe. Maybe because I didn't get it all out of my system when I apparently woke up before and I'm still fighting back hysteria, but the constantly-pouncing memories have finally gone still.

And maybe I'm a little scared by how different this is. Desperate, almost, like being pushed away would be the Worst Possible Thing. She doesn't need me, but I need her, in more ways than one, and we both know it and it feels like a knife to my throat. I want to panic, but I can't panic _now, _because it's fucking stupid, not to mention that she'd think she did something wrong even though she's been so careful with me. When did I get so goddamn fragile?

Oh, right.

The kiss trails off into me clinging to Amelia for dear life, still draped across the lathe, my face in the crook of her shoulder. She waits a few seconds for me to let go. I don't. I will quite literally cry if she forcibly removes me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I note with dismay that I'm apparently no longer capable of existing as an independent human being, but it's nowhere near the top of my Things To Freak Out About list.

"Um… Ariel?" she says.

"Hmm?" I mumble into the lapel of her coat.

"You've got a bunch of new gadgets now."

I lift my head. "What?"

"Look."

Sure enough, the countertop is covered in stuff that wasn't there before. A full, shiny new toolkit. A scientific calculator and a stack of reference books. Even a few tricky little things I'd been wondering how to jury-rig, like a bomb-quality switch. My heart sinks. So even when I _do_ actually mean something like a kiss with all of my sorry excuse for a heart, they're all still out there, glued to their screens, watching with rapt attention, not caring in the slightest whether it's Woohyun or Amelia or probably even Luther, if she took a mind to giving a repeat performance. It makes me sick to think about. I knew it on some level, but now it's really sinking in that my thoughts and feelings just don't matter here.

And that makes me angry again. All the hurt and fear fuse into cold rage. I'm not a toy. I'm not a performance. I'm sure as hell not a pathetic, pretty piece of meat for them to coo over. I'm the most dangerous thing in this motherfucking Arena, and I _will _kill almost everyone in it without blinking.

Almost.

I let go of Amelia and grab the wrench again. "Thanks for that."

"Uh, you're welcome. Are you okay if I go?"

"I'm fine. Watch out for Luther."

"Sure."

I pop out from behind the lathe again, waving the wrench at her. "I'm serious. She knows kung-fu. Or something."

"I'll shoot on sight, promise. _Please _don't blow yourself up."

"I won't."

Not yet.

**Sorry I keep giving the same people long chapters, I'm awful, I know, but I'm setting stuff up. And yes, I waited 50 chapters for the demon core joke.**


	47. Because I Can

**Atlas Edenthaw, District Eight, 17**

"W-We should go this way," Des says with a gulp, pointing down a dark hallway.

"What? Why?" I pant, glancing over my shoulder. I can't see or hear the Ten boy, but that doesn't make me feel much better.

"You're bleeding. It'll stop them from following us."

She's got a point. I nod and follow her, trying to ignore the awful feeling that the wolfman will have no trouble tracking us through the dark. We've barely made it ten feet when even the lights behind us go out. Des makes a little yelping noise.

"What the fuck?" I mutter.

A screen clicks on, making me jump. Static. Random patterns. A bird?

Des sucks in a breath.

"What?"

"I've seen that before," she says slowly. "It keeps getting spray-painted onto buildings in Eight."

"What's it mean?"

"I think–"

The screens go dead. The lights come back, far behind us. Something moves in the space between us and the light. Something big.

"Des," I whisper. "Give me the gun."

I tried to do the right thing, letting her carry it, but it's clear by now that she simply isn't going to use the damn thing. I'm leaving her unarmed and myself with two weapons, but what am I supposed to do? She's not a match for Fenris, period.

But even with a gun and a knife, I'm not sure I am, either. I'm doing my best to hold it together, but I think I've lost a lot of blood. I'm dizzy and my muscles feel weak. If I have to fight the wolfman right now, he's going to snap my spine and rip my throat out, no question.

She presses the pistol into my hands. "But don't tell me to run. I'm not running."

"But–"

"Why should I? 'Cause I'm a girl? 'Cause I'm younger? I-I can't… not like Ted," she hisses. Her voice is shaking. She's scared of the dark, I realize. If she runs and I fight and lose—which I will—she'll be left alone in the dark with a monster.

"I don't know what to do," I say out loud without meaning to.

"Can we just stay together? I-I'd rather…"

She doesn't finish saying it, but she doesn't need to. She'd rather we die together. She's too scared to be alone again.

What am I supposed to _do? _Every instinct says she should get out of here. Because _he's _here. I can feel it. But if I'm just consigning her to an extra few days, or hours, or minutes of fear…

Suddenly, Fenris.

If I'd been a tiny bit weaker, he would've broken my neck there and then. But I grab for his fingers the instant I feel them closing around my throat from behind and pull as hard as I can. His bone snaps. He makes an awful, angry snarling noise and hits me hard enough to send me to the ground on my face. I roll onto my back and aim the gun at where I think he is.

_Click._

Fuck.

"Oh," Des's voice says softly.

She used all the bullets, firing at the ceiling, thin air above Amelia's head, fucking everything _but the tributes. _I want to scream at her. If she dies now, it'll be her own stupid fucking fault. Why couldn't she just kill? Point a gun at someone's head and pull the trigger, like a thirteen-year-old… should be able to?

Fenris grunts and lunges at her. That's his weakness: he's just so goddamn huge. I don't know if I'm hearing him or feeling his body heat or the air he moves or what, but I can tell where he is, even in the dark.

Des's footsteps patter away. Fenris thuds against the wall. I lunge at him, but the tiny amount of light making it down the hallway must be just enough to make the knife in my hand gleam. He catches my arm.

_Crack._

I yell and collapse, except I can't; he's still got me. He tears the knife from my grip and flings it down the hallway. _Get it, Des. Get the knife and help me. No, run. No, help me._

I'm strong, but Fenris is inhuman. It's like trying to fight something made of metal; it's not just hopeless, my opponent doesn't even realize there's a fight. He's got a hand on my broken arm and one on my shoulder. He picks me up clear off the ground and slams me against the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of me.

I volunteered, I tell myself as his hand creeps to my throat again. I knew I was going to die. I'm okay. I don't want to go home, I don't, they don't need me, I did the best I could for Des, I can just… stop.

I tell myself that, but I'm lying. I don't want to die. I really, really don't want to die, but his hand is on my throat now and I can't breathe and there's not a goddamned thing I can do about it.

Fenris screams—roars, really—and drops me. I smell blood. Des found the knife.

There's an awful sound that can only be Fenris hitting her, then a small _thump _across the tunnel, like a cloth dummy dropped on the ground.

I'm on my feet before I've really registered it. I don't know what I'm feeling. Anger. Fear. I don't know if she's dead, but she will be if I don't stop him.

So the wolfman better be ready for a fight.

**Fenris Carter, District Ten, 18**

They explained the rules to me, slowly and repeatedly. Go into the Arena. Kill everyone. No eating people. That's it. I like those rules. Even the last one is okay, since there's plenty of beef jerky.

These people are not my enemies. They're obstacles. They have to die. I don't mind hurting them, but I wouldn't do it if I didn't have to. I'm not angry at them.

Except this boy. I'm frustrated with this boy. He won't die.

I don't understand why. He can't kill me, not without a weapon. He isn't strong enough. It's only a matter of time until I kill him, and he can't get away; I can smell his bleeding leg from fifty feet away. Why doesn't he let me break his neck?

But he keeps twisting away at the last second, punching and kicking. Hard. It hurts. Frustration becomes anger becomes rage. I attack him with teeth and nails, throwing him around and lunging before he can get up.

He's angry too. He snarls right back at me, returning bite for bite, and I almost consider him a respectable opponent as we grapple across the floor.

But he's fading. His arm is broken. He's bleeding. His anger is draining away and leaving fear behind as he slowly realizes that I am going to kill him. Sooner or later, one of my strikes will knock him out, or my teeth will reach his throat. I know he senses the inevitability of it. He stops striking back and concentrates on holding me off, bracing all four limbs against me to stop me from breaking his neck when I get his back to the wall again. I grab his wrists and throw him to the ground and we begin to fight again, except it isn't a fight. It's just me hitting him. I'm still angry. His snarls become cries as his ribs crack.

He wriggles from my grip and tries to run.

I didn't expect that. I'm so surprised that he makes it ten strides before I catch him.

But I do catch him, by the arm and by the hair. I'm calmer now. I don't need to hit him anymore. I move my hands to his shoulder and his jaw and snap his neck before he can even try to stop me. There's that second between life and death where his nails scrabble at my hands weakly before he goes limp.

I may as well kill the girl, too. I drop the boy and retrace my steps up the tunnel. It's hard to smell her through the blood, and the light is dim. I can't find her.

She's gone.

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

I've found a nice place to sit. It's in the middle of a tangle of machinery on the fourth floor, right at the edge of the pit. I can see the entire fourth-floor balcony and most of the ones on the levels below. All of them are dark. A bit of light spills down from the Career base, but between the dark clothing and the shadows, I'm well-hidden.

I sit and think, holding the rifle. I can't decide who's worth my time: Kaya or Ariel? Because I'm not happy with Kaya. I don't like being abandoned. But she was just scared, and besides, she's so… normal. I don't think she'll play my game. She just wants to live.

But Ariel, he's playing. I've seen it in his eyes. Always the vicious hatred glittering along with the fear. I've pushed him close to the breaking point, made him see how deep the pit goes if I were to send him tumbling down, but I always let him scramble back to safety. He has Amelia now; she'll make sure he's still standing when I get to him.

Good. I want him to recover. I hope he builds up his will stronger than ever, musters all his skill and intelligence and staggering arrogance and resolves with determination he didn't know he had to turn them against me. I want him at his most powerful and confident. It'll hurt more that way.

Why hurt him? Because I can_._ They worship the ground he walks on. I'm just sad I won't be able to see their faces when I make him beg and plead and die anyway.

Should I let him die pretty or not? They won't want to let me take that from him, but they don't have to let me. I'm very quick.

Movement by the third floor railing catches my eye. I sit up straight, raising the rifle silently and looking through the sight. It's even got night vision. Almost as nice as the stuff Tactics has.

Short girl, dark-skinned, stocky. Desdemona Crow, age thirteen, from District Eight. Not much of a kill, but each one counts for the Capitol statistics, which play heavily into sponsorship. I prop the muzzle on the railing. A red dot appears near the bottom of the girl's ribs, where she won't see it.

"_Des, run!" _a voice screams from near me.

I pull the trigger just as Des moves. I don't think I hit her, or if I did, nothing important enough to stop her from running away.

Now for whoever yelled. Female. Youngish. Felicity Haywood of District Twelve, by process of elimination. I am not happy with her. I sling the rifle across my back, draw a pistol, and head in the direction of her voice.

**Thank you so much to every who's been reviewing! I know this is a repost, but it does mean a lot to know people are reading this.**


	48. Statistics

**Felicity Haywood, District Twelve, 14**

There's a strict list of permitted books in District Twelve, and it's not a long one. The number of history books available is surprisingly high, but almost all of them are about ancient civilizations. Around World War Two, they start to trail off. I've found one book about World War Three, and none whatsoever about the Dark Days or the Rebellion.

Not on the list of permitted books, anyway. But I've found a few that aren't. Some handed down for generations, some smuggled into Twelve from who knows where. I have a nose for finding them, I guess.

So when the screens go black and the mockingjay appears, I know exactly what it means. Something is happening. Someone's trying to save us, and that was their message: _we're coming. So stop killing each other._

I have to tell everyone, but I can't find anyone. I comb the entirety of the third floor. If anyone's there, I miss them. I run up to Floor Four. It's mostly full of offices and bedrooms. They remind me of the pictures from my World War Two books, lots of lace and dull-colored floral bedspreads, crosses on the walls. I peek into each room I pass. No one.

I slip through a set of double doors and emerge onto the balcony area surrounding the pit. Everything is still and dark and quiet. It's full of boxes, machinery, and various clutter. I duck behind a pile of it to catch my breath. Where _is _everybody? If I were the last person left alive, I'd know about it. But who else is there? As morbid as that list of names on the screens was, it was useful.

I know most of the Careers are dead. So is Castalia. But the last I saw before the screens died, Des is still out there.

I regain a bit of hope despite myself. Maybe Des will forgive me. Even if she doesn't, we can both go home, her to her mom and sister, me to my parents and siblings. My seat at our dinner table won't be empty anymore. Sasha and Lottie won't spend the night curled up in my bed like they always do when I'm gone.

Unless there's something I could do for this hypothetical rebellion. It seems impossible, but if they're powerful enough to cut the power to the Arena, even if only for a second… who knows? Should I help them? I want to, if only to keep my promise to myself that I'll be brave. But if I get out of the Arena, I won't be the only person put at risk by my decisions.

There's a flash of light on the balcony a floor below me, like someone opening a door to an illuminated area. So I did miss someone. A short, stocky figure is silhouetted for a split second, then disappears, then reappears again as she steps into the dim light near the edge. Des. I stand up, wondering how to get her attention without making noise.

There's a glowing red dot at the top of her stomach. At first I think it's a reflection or something, but then it falls into place: someone's playing the sniper.

Okay, so much for not making noise.

"Des, run!" I scream at the top of my lungs.

Des throws herself to the side, back into darkness, as a gun fires from off to my left. I don't hear her yell or anything, and there's a distant sound like her heavy footsteps. She's okay. I might not be. The sniper is close and they know roughly where I am.

But I know where they are, too. I draw my pistol and duck behind some machinery again. It's dark, but not total darkness; I'll see someone coming closer.

Nothing. Not a breath, not a rustle. Seconds turn into minutes. My legs are cramping up from crouching here so long.

They can't have left. No one's that quiet, and it's impossible to make it two feet without kicking some of the clutter on the floor. Are they waiting for me to move first? Sitting out there somewhere, staring at the pile of stuff I'm behind, just waiting for me to stick my head out so they can put a bullet in my skull?

I peek out for a split second, pulling my head back as fast as I can, hoping they'll shoot at me and give themselves away. Silence. I look around the box again, staying in the shadows, but leaving myself in the open if they really do know exactly where I am. Still nothing. Maybe they have bad night vision? Was I wrong about where they were? I could've sworn the gunshot came from this floor, but maybe…?

Maybe, but no. Some kind of sixth sense is telling me that I'm in serious danger.

_Clink. _The tiniest tap of metal on metal.

I risk yet another quick glance and almost have a heart attack. A tall, thin figure is drifting among the broken pieces of machinery like a ghost. Leaning over and around them, looking for something. For me. Coming closer.

I don't know what to do. I could shoot, but that would be horribly wrong after the mockingjay. I could just start talking to them and hope they listen before they kill me. Or I could run.

Something about the dark figure gives me the creeps. I'm going to run.

I wait until they turn away, then slip out from behind my pile of boxes, creeping toward the closest tunnel. I glance over my shoulder as I duck into it and find the figure looking right back at me.

Crap.

It's one of the District Fives. I can't tell which in the darkness, but it doesn't really matter; I'd prefer not to tangle with either of them. I bolt down the tunnel. Now it's _really _dark. If this tunnel does anything other than go perfectly straight, I'm going to sprint straight into a wall. I can't tell if I'm being followed, but at least it's too dark to shoot.

I make an effort to keep my footsteps quiet. As soon as I do so, I hear something: another set of footsteps, softer than mine, keeping perfect pace with me. Not behind me. Right next to me.

"Is she your ally?" a soft, low female voice asks. The girl, then. Luther Constantine. I have a bad feeling about this.

I stop running. She does too. "Des? She was," I say carefully. Maybe Luther wants a truce anyway?

"Was?"

"I, um… left. But I changed my mind."

Luther sighs. "So I'm not the only one that happened to. That makes it a bit less personal, I suppose."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," she says, her voice exaggeratedly cheerful.

I'm nervous. I don't want to kill her, but I reach for my gun for just in case. It's gone.

"So tell me," Luther goes on. "What have you seen?"

"Huh?"

"Have you seen anyone recently? Other than Des?"

"Er… the Careers. On the top floor."

"Old news," she says impatiently. "Anything else? Have you seen Ariel?"

"He was with them."

Even though it's dark, I can tell from her voice that her face lights up. "You saw him? How was he?"

"Um… fine, I guess?"

"What was he doing?"

"I mean, I only saw him for a second."

"And what was he doing for that second."

"Er," I say, feeling myself blush. "Um. Kissing the Four boy."

Luther laughs delightedly. "What a darling. Incredible. Anyone else?"

"No."

"What's the top floor like? I haven't been up there much."

"Storage, mostly. Lockers full of scientific stuff. A big empty room in the middle where the Careers were. But listen, that power outage just now–"

"How many monsters up there?"

"Just a few. But listen to me," I plead, touching my belt again like my gun might have magically reappeared there. "That symbol, it was a–"

"A mockingjay, I know," she says lightly. "Believe me, I know."

"But you know what that means, then."

"Oh?"

"No one else has to die," I say, taking a chance and grabbing her shoulder. She tenses and pulls away. "Someone's trying to help us."

"No one else has to die," Luther repeats slowly. "Hmm. No, I don't think that's quite true."

My heart sinks. "What? What do you mean?"

She laughs and puts a hand on my shoulder instead, pressing me backwards until I hit the wall. She's stronger than she looks. "I mean that I'm not nearly finished yet."

I don't need to hear any more. I throw a punch at what I hope is her face, but miss in the dark and hit her shoulder instead. Not that it would've done much even if I hit her square on the nose. I've never tried to hit someone before.

Luther lunges forward, pinning me against the wall from head to toe. I feel the barrel of a gun against my forehead and my mind goes blank. My whole body feels numb. She's going to kill me, right here in the dark. Why? What's wrong with her?

"Luther," I protest, struggling to keep my voice from cracking. I'm going to be brave. "Why are you…?"

"Why not?"

Why not? I realize that I have no idea how to answer that. Because I deserve to live? I'm not sure that's true. Because people will miss me? So what?

"But–"

"Sorry, darling," she whispers in my ear. "Statistics. Goodbye."

I don't even hear the gun go off.

**SORRY. SORRYSORRYSORRYSORRYSORRY. :'(**

**One more kill to the final eight. Warning: shit's gonna start getting really real after this. Tributes standing: Amelia, Viss, Luka, Amaris, Luther, Ariel, Kaya, Des, Fenris. Any bets (from people who don't already know)?**


	49. Something Nasty

**Kaya Redfell, District Seven, 18**

I almost regret destroying the security booth. Almost. It'd be nice to know who's left, but it's not worth letting Luther track me.

The thought makes me look over my shoulder. Nothing but endless metal doors, some open, some not. The hallway is lined with little office-y rooms and storage areas full of ominous-looking metal lockers I know better than to open. Not that it would make a difference at this point.

I could convince myself it's fatigue, or hunger, or dehydration, but I've felt all of those before and this is different. I'm getting sick. I know next to nothing about radiation, except a few things: there's a lot of it here, it's hurting me, and I need to find a way to avoid it.

I jog around aimlessly, axe in one hand, pistol in the other. I'll use them if I have to. It's just that I'm not so sure what _have to_ means. If someone comes running at me with a knife, sure. But what if they're just… there? They have to die, but I don't have to kill them. Sort of. I don't know. I'm no philosopher and now seems like an awful time to start my career in staring at a wall wondering what morality is. I'll survive first and decide if I'm sorry about it later.

_Bang._

I jump and raise the pistol, but the noise is coming from around the corner. I peek around it cautiously. More doors and flickering lights.

_Bang. _

The echo of the noise dies out, and I just hear the echo of someone swearing inside one of the storage rooms.

_Bang. _

"Luka, what are you doing?" a female voice says in a monotone.

District Three, then. I creep closer, lowing the gun, but keeping it drawn.

"Trying to open this thing."

"Why?"

"'Cause."

_Bang. Bang. Bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang._

I would pay actual money to see the look on Viss's face, and that's saying something for me.

_… __Bang. Click._

"Ha!" he says triumphantly.

"Hang on, let me make sure there's nothing radioactive before you dive in there." There's a soft clicking noise. "Okay. Go for it."

They've got a Geiger counter.

I lean against the wall, considering my options. I could try to fight them, but I've got no idea how well-armed they are and what kind of shape they're in. Besides, I told myself I'd do what I had to, but just running in there and shooting them both feels wrong when I've got other options. We had our automatic truce, but that was conditional on us meeting before the final twelve. I doubt twelve people are still alive in here and I know Viss wouldn't hesitate to kill me if she thought it was the best strategy.

Luka gasps. "Lookit, a new coat!"

"And better medicine, and a wrist brace. Here, give me your hand."

"Ah. Ow. Careful."

I take a quick peek into their shadowy room. All the lights but one have gone out. Most of the metal cabinets lining the wall are dark grey, but the open one is neon pink. I think I see a smiley face spray-painted on the door, which has a solid dent in it, presumably courtesy of Luka.

Okay.

Viss tenses and whips around toward me. I yank my head back and dodge into the room next door. If she saw me, she doesn't do anything about it.

So. Note to self. Neon pink cabinets are apparently the motherlode, although it wouldn't surprise me one bit if half are full of incredibly useful stuff and the rest are just stuffed to the brim with spiders. Like Luther said, everything in the Arena has a cost.

It's too late for an alliance, I decide, but I don't want to hurt them. Not now. So what I'm going to do is follow them. They'll lead me away from the radioactive areas, and maybe take the brunt of anything we run into. For now, I'll sit here and rest and listen for them leaving, but I think that won't be for a while. They had a lot of supplies and it sounded like Luka is hurt. They'll lay low for as long as they can.

There's a sound like thunder, a low rumble, getting sharper. I sit up straight. Some absolutely massive piece of machinery is in motion, somewhere out there. Above me, below me, down the hallway. My little room is dark and calm, but for a moment it feels like the world is being shaken to pieces outside.

The Arena goes silent again. I rise to a crouch, but stay in the darkness, resisting the temptation to look outside. The Threes will definitely investigate and I'd rather not find myself face-to-face with Viss's cold stare.

Sure enough, a shadow crosses in front of my door. "What," Luka says in disbelief.

"Did it just…?"

"I think so. Holy shit. Now what?"

"Go to sleep, I guess. Doesn't look like anything's coming."

I wait a few minutes before looking outside myself. When I do, my jaw drops.

Our stretch of hallway is the same, but there's an intersection that I'm ninety percent sure wasn't there before. The doors to the staircase are gone. Where there used to be double doors, the hallway stretches away into darkness.

The Arena rearranged itself. I think we're close to the endgame now.

**The Capitol**

Deyna Balthazar couldn't decide whether or not he was a happy camper.

He sat on a plush pink sofa in the lobby of the President's mansion, his chin propped on his fists, an island of perfect stillness amid the flurry of people rushing past him. The place was always chaotic, but this was different. A note of fear in what was usually a cheerful bustle. Considerably more Peacekeeper uniforms than usual scattered among the bright colors.

Perhaps the broken window had something to do with it, and the massive burn mark on the wallpaper across from him.

"I'm surprised they haven't fixed that yet," Tibbi observed from next to him.

"Priorities, I suppose."

"Then priorities have changed."

"It seems they have. I don't think there's ever been unrest like this in the Capitol itself."

Tibbi scooted closer. "Do you think the Games will finish? I heard half the forces guarding the Arena have already been redeployed."

"I'm not a tactician," Deyna said with a shrug, fixing her with his trademark, unblinking, red-eyed stare. "My job is to run my Games until someone who outranks me tells me to stop them, or until someone takes over the Arena."

"Do you really think anyone could?"

"Oh, certainly," he said blithely. "The rumor you heard was an understatement. There are only four Peacekeeper craft left within two hundred miles."

It was true. He'd played a role in it, in fact, encouraging Fife's officers to siphon guards away from the Arena. The government buildings were the priority, he had selflessly declared. If his Games were ruined, as much as it pained him, so be it.

"… Really," Tibbi said.

"Really. Why, the Gamemaker craft alone is heavily armed enough to destroy at least two Peacekeeper fighters, but it's still right here in the Capitol because we can't spare the manpower to crew it. Isn't that interesting?"

"Er… yes, very."

Deyna gave her a pointy-toothed smile. "I, for one, am very excited. A bit nervous, though."

"Why is that?"

"Well, it wouldn't surprise me if an extremely nasty event in the Arena would push this whole thing over the edge. People are so very angry."

Tibbi pursed her silver lips. "Then are you going to let anything nasty happen?"

"As I said, Tibbi, rebellion and war are none of my business. I simply run the Hunger Games. And the Hunger Games are meant to be nasty. In fact, that is rather the idea, correct?"

"Oh, certainly."

"But to answer your question…"

Deyna flipped through video feeds on his tablet until he found one showing a bony, short-haired girl striding toward the door of a laboratory. He zoomed in on her small, cruel smirk and tapped the screen decisively.

"Yes, I rather think something nasty is about to happen."


	50. Nuclear

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

It's been at least a day or two since the Arena rearranged itself and I can't find the lab. I keep having infuriating flashes of recognition—a familiar hallway, double doors that look just like the ones before the lab entrance—but when I get close it's always different. I'm not even sure what floor I'm on, or if there are still five floors.

I have an awful suspicion that they're keeping me away from Ariel on purpose. Something is happening and they don't want me interfering. But they're not killing me, either, which is both fortunate and ominous. Maybe they actually want me as the Victor, but maybe they've got something in store for me. Something they want me to see.

Deep down, I _know _what's happening. Luther found Ariel and there's nothing I can do about it. The one thing he feared more than anything, what I promised I wouldn't let happen. He wanted to die. The only reason he didn't put a bullet in his own head was because he wanted to stick around and help me win. And now this. I feel sick.

I do the only thing I can, which is stay alert and alive. I manage to find the old Career base and raid our supply pile, stocking up on weapons, ammo, and food. I stalk the hallways like a caged wolf, wondering what I'll do if I find someone. I never _wanted _to kill, really. But the Games are what they are. One survivor, twenty-three dead, regardless of my actions. Does it really matter if I'm the one to live and reap the rewards?

Now I have too many guns. My backpack is heavy and I think my pants are about to fall down from the weight on my belt. I don't want to just ditch them in the hallway, where another tribute might find them. I duck into a bedroom and stuff a pistol and a rifle under the mattress. I might be setting someone up for the world's weirdest Princess and the Pea situation, but it's at least a bit more subtle than the middle of the floor.

I return to the hallway and keep walking. The lights here are almost _too _bright, especially after so much time spent in dim emergency lights and total darkness.

I find food. Water. More than I can carry. I'm getting bored and restless. _Something _has to happen soon.

At last I do see someone, but that person is Amaris da Costa, peeking at me from around a corner. She sees the gun in my hand and ducks out of sight. I don't follow her; she's probably lurking there with a length of pipe, waiting to brain me with it cartoon-style. I'll pass on that, thank you very much. Hopefully she'll stand there for a while. Every now and then I duck into a room and wait a while to make sure she's not following me, but there's no sign of her.

I should stop thinking about Ariel and I know it. I do want to win. I have a family and friends to go home to. I only met Ariel a few weeks ago. But it feels like such an awful betrayal to not even _try _to find him, when I saw for myself the state he's in. He was falling to pieces even before we were separated. I had to cajole him into eating. He cries in his sleep. I don't think he can take much more, and from what I've heard, Luther Constantine is just about the worst thing that can happen to someone.

Anyway, I miss him, I muse as I scope out another empty bedroom. He has the weirdest sense of humor, but I love it. He's got that vibrant energy to him even when he's freaking out. And he has to be one of the smartest people in Panem. Sure, he was a dick at first, but I think he's good at heart, just defensive. He never deserved this.

Neither did most of us, I remember. But the Hunger Games aren't about justice. They're about fear and loss and pain. I can try to survive. Maybe I can succeed. But I don't think there's anything I can do to save him.

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

Amelia should have been back long, long ago. She isn't. So that's not the best.

I will not imagine her getting ripped apart by monsters, or running into Amaris, or getting caught by Luther and ending up on the business end of God only knows what. I will not panic about how very screwed I am if pretty much anyone else finds their way in here. I will not succumb to the temptation to gulp down half that unlabeled bottle to make it easier. I will not even take painkillers, because fuck it all.

What I will do is build a huge motherfucking bomb.

I have to be careful. Amelia found a _lot _of plutonium, enough to build a hundred megaton nuke and take out the entire Arena and every tree for fifty miles around, force field or no force field. Presumably the Gamemakers would prefer that I don't do that, so I dial it back a few orders of magnitude in the plans I've drawn up and left out for the cameras. It'll kill _almost _everyone in the Arena when it goes off. Anyone who's not ready. Anyone who hasn't, say, been stuffed behind a few meters of reinforced lead by whatever means necessary.

She's going to be _angry. _If she's alive, and I manage to finish the damn thing while I'm still alive, and I find her and lure her somewhere she'll survive the blast. That's a lot of _if_s. And that's why there's Plan B.

Plan B is my sneaky little bomb-within-a-bomb. Some extra plutonium here, an experimental reflector material there. A sub-detonation built into one end to provide compression. So if I hit the main switch, bang, goodnight, ladies and gentlemen and all the rest. But if I use the secondary trigger… _BAM. _Fuck you _all._

But I won't do that. Not unless it turns out Amelia's dead, in which case everyone in this Arena and outside it can kiss my perfect, radioactive ass. Sure hope they built this thing in the middle of nowhere, because I'm taking it all with me when I go.

I want to dance around while I work, but I can't stop thinking about them watching me. I'm not giving them that. Why do they have to ruin everything I like?

I should sleep, but I keep working. I'm losing track of time. Whatever. I'm making serious progress, and every new component I install gives me a bit of confidence back. So, okay, I haven't been doing great so far. At all. I'm alive through dumb luck, Amelia's interference, and the Capitol liking my face and I know it. But this Arena was _made _for me. I was so fucking ready to get Reaped. Maybe for some twisted reasons, but still. I wanted fame, well, now I've got it. I wanted attention. I wanted everyone to want me.

You know what? Let them. They can drool at their screens all they want; they can't have me. I don't care anymore. I'm going to dance to wildly inappropriate music if I damn well please, so help me. I'm not scared. Not of them, not of Luther. It's her turn to be scared of me. _They_ should he scared of me. I hate them so much they must be cosmically poisoned by it.

I make it through the next few hours on the energy born of sheer spite before I almost faceplant into the bomb and concede that I should get some sleep. It's all I can do to stuff the little dirty bomb I've been making on the side into a cabinet and the big one in a pile of junk before I all but pass out behind the same scrap heap.

I didn't set the trap, I realize, but I'm too far gone to wake myself up again. Maybe it's for the better. Maybe I'll wake up and Amelia will be back. It's a nice thought, but it doesn't do much for the awful feeling in my gut.

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

Someone's been busy.

I'm happy he's not here, because it means I can see what he's been up to. Quite a bit. Most of the machinery in the lab is running, but the trap by the door is defused. His notes are scattered across the counter, that familiar slanted writing with the twist in the Z's. He's got at least two projects. I don't understand everything he's written, but I get the general idea: he's building a small dirty bomb and something big. I don't see either of them, but they're here somewhere.

I keep dead silent out of habit as I drift through his lab. Still no sign of life. He's out with Amelia, maybe, which is suboptimal. I'll have no choice but to shoot her as soon as they walk in. I'd rather keep her around—leverage and all—but she's too strong to fight head-on.

There's something that looks like a toaster on one counter. It can't be. I press the little lever down experimentally. Sure enough, heat comes from the slit at the top. There's a piece of bread inside.

Hmm. I hope he hasn't gone _completely _mad. Not yet. I wanted to do that myself.

I keep looking around. I don't have much use for a nuclear bomb, although I'd like to sabotage it just to remove the variable from the equation. A grenade-sized dirty bomb, on the other hand, I could use.

The toast pops out of the toaster behind me and I almost have a heart attack.

I stand there for a few seconds, biting my lip and trying not to think about how hard everyone in Panem must be laughing right now. Okay. That was a mistake, but it doesn't matter that I've broken the silence, since no one is… here?

A tiny noise. I start to turn.

Something slams into me from behind, knocking me over the countertop. My arms are wrenched behind my back.

"Hello, darling," Ariel whispers in my ear as he snaps the handcuffs onto my wrists. "Looking for me?"


	51. Crazy

**CW District Five continuing along the same trajectory, i.e. straight to hell. Specifically not-technically-sexual-assault-but-really-really-obvious-metaphors-for-it. This is like… the fourth most unpleasant chapter, maybe? I'd say we've already seen the worst. Two and three are still coming. So, uh, get pumped for those, I guess.**

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

I thought I wanted this, but now I don't know. I want her dead. I want her alive. I want to rip her to pieces, and to just drop her and run away as fast as I can. I want revenge. I want her to feel sick at the sound of my name and quail when I look at her, like she did to me.

But now I'm pressed against her with my nails digging into her arms and I know what this looks like but I don't know what to do. I'm not like that. I'll never sink that low. Would I? If I thought it'd actually hurt her like it would most people, like it hurt me… I don't _want _to know what I would do.

"I did miss you," she says with that smug, cold little smile that makes me want to throw up. "This is exciting. You having the advantage for once, by dumb luck. What are you going to do with it?"

I smile right back at her, letting all my burning desire to rip her fucking throat out show in it. I'm scared, but that doesn't mean she's safe. "What do you think?"

She gasps exaggeratedly as I take my weight off her, yanking her upright. "Something terrible, I'm sure."

"Something awful," I agree, dragging her across the room and noting with no small satisfaction that I'm significantly stronger. I throw her on her face by the wall and undo one of the cuffs, stepping on her back to stop her from pulling some kung-fu trick. She doesn't even try, and I loop the chain around a pipe before clipping the cuffs shut again. I can't shake the feeling that it was too easy and I'm making a horrible mistake.

Tactically, that is. I know for a fact it's a mistake morally; I should just shoot her in the head and call it a day. But that's letting her get away with it. Not this time.

"Do tell?"

I remove absolutely everything she could possibly reach, even the tiny scraps of metal on the floor. I'm sure she knows how to pick locks. "That would ruin the anticipation."

She considers that. "Does it involve giving the Capitol a show?"

"You know what?" I say with an even bigger smile, crouching down in front of her and getting right in her face, baring my teeth. "It kinda does."

"Oh, my. You'd really give them that? Just for me? I'm flattered."

"Listen," I hiss. "I don't know who fucked _you _up so bad, but I don't need to sink to your level."

She laughs and it doesn't seem totally fake. At the part about how she got this way, I think, like she knows something I could never begin to imagine. "Are you telling me you have morals?"

"Not at all. You just don't deserve me," I say lightly, standing up and walking away. "But you're gonna _wish_ I had morals."

Do I mean that? I don't _think _I do.

"I'm growing more intrigued by the second." The interest in her voice is exaggeratedly fake. "I can see you shaking, by the way. What are you so scared of?"

I hate how calm she is. Not blank-faced, but almost every expression I've seen her use is so obviously manufactured. Not a trace of genuine emotion. For a moment I really do wonder if my plan will hurt her. Maybe I've guessed wrong and she doesn't even care about her own intelligence.

But she has to. I've seen how much joy she takes in outwitting me. Hell, the fact that I'm her target of choice is a twisted compliment to my own intellect. She revels in that sense of superiority. It makes her invincible.

It'll_ suck_ to lose, I reflect as I pour some of the chemical my sponsors gave me into a half-empty water bottle, being careful to keep it from splashing. I bet she'll panic. I bet she'll cry. I can't wait.

"Are you getting a knife or something?" Luther says cheerfully. "Do you know how to use it? I can show you some tricks."

"Shut up," I growl from behind the counter.

"I'm going to throw one to the Capitol here and say _make me._"

It's tempting, but both she and the Capitol want nothing more than for me to get violent. I'm not letting her control me like that. Even though it would feel so good to put my hands around her skinny neck and squeeze. Or so I tell myself.

"I said shut up, I'm not dealing with you right now," I say calmly, setting some of my tools on the countertop instead.

Luther doesn't reply. There's the clink of metal on metal. I whirl around, my heart in my throat.

She's just sitting there, smiling. "Gotcha."

I bite my lip and turn around again.

"Don't be so jumpy. You know for a fact that I can't get away. Right? You were so careful. Because if I did…" She laughs, that same delighted little snicker as the night on the train, during the part where all I remember is pain and fear and humiliation and that exact fucking laugh.

She's going to regret it.

"Will you shut up if I give you food and water?" I sigh.

"Hmm. Will it be poisoned?"

"Do you honestly think I'd be satisfied with poisoning you?"

"I certainly hope not. What a failure of imagination that would be."

"Just fucking have it," I mutter, chucking the water bottle and a packet of food in her general direction. I'm not sure how she's supposed to eat with her hands cuffed to a pipe, but I think she's smart enough to figure something out. I throw the toast at her head for good measure.

"Aren't you a treasure," Luther coos. "More endearing by the second. I bet they're fighting over you in the Capitol."

My pulse skyrockets, but I take a deep breath and turn my back. I just have to wait it out.

**Amaris da Costa, District Four, 17**

Amelia has guns. Lots of guns. Fuck it, I'll get the jump on her later. Even though my arm is broken, whatever, I don't give a flying fuck, I can still kill everyone here with one hand.

Because I'm _awesome._

And I've got someone else's trail. Whoever they are, they're quiet, but they're there. I track them through the dark like a goddamn jaguar, prowling after every tiny rustle and breathing noise.

Can Mom see me? I bet Mom can see me. I bet she's proud. No, more than proud; I bet she's amazed. She was awesome and she knew I'd be awesome, but I think I'm surpassing expectations. A quarter of the Arena, dead at my hands.

Time for one more. And this time I'm gonna make it hurt.

I round the corner to find the door to a stairwell drifting closed. I slip through it just before it clicks shut and catch the sound of another door opening a floor down.

We're on the fourth floor. I stick my head into the doorway just in time to see a figure vanishing around a corner. A big figure. A _huge _figure.

Wolfman.

Nice. Time to play, Fido.

_Amaris, no, _Jaiven's voice says in my head.

"Amaris, _yes," _I growl.

Wolfman stops dead and turns around. Okay. I guess we're doing this here and now. I draw a knife with one hand and my broken sword with the other, broken arm or not, like I give a fuck. Just a little fracture. Wolfman bares his teeth and comes at me.

Let's fucking _go._

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

"So how's it going?" I ask conversationally.

Ariel's shoulders tense. "Shut up."

It's been a lovely few hours, watching him work, speaking up occasionally. He mostly ignores me, but now and then I say the right thing and he covers his mouth and sinks to the floor and has a miniature panic attack.

"You know what you oughta do?" I say after a few minutes of silence. "Detonate that right now. Save yourself some trouble."

He ignores me.

"I _will _get away, you know. As soon as I'm done messing with you."

"You're bluffing."

"Do you really want to bet on that? The stakes are awfully high, don't you think? Because when I get you–"

"You're not going to, and shut _up,_" he spits, turning to point a wrench at me. The first telltale, rabid glint of real crazy is shining in his eyes.

"Oh, but I _am_ going to," I say with the little grin that I know drives him up the wall.

"Shut up before I knock you out."

"And when I do, I'm going to make you grovel on the floor, begging for death," I say in the same cheerful tone.

"Why do you _talk _like that?" he snaps. "Who does that?"

"The Capitol is going to love it. How do you think they'd like me to put you out of your misery when I'm finally done? Maybe I'll stuff a gun barrel down your throat and let them watch you choke on it for a bit before I pull the trigger. How _terribly _Freudian that would be."

The wrench clatters to the counter. "That's enough," Ariel says quietly.

"You know, I thought I might throw you into the pit, but maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should leave your body nice and pretty for them."

He turns around and I know instantly that I've gone too far. The look in his eyes is pure murder. This ought to be good.

Ariel straightens up, walks over, and grabs the water bottle from the floor next to me.

"I _knew _it was poison," I crow. "God, you're predictable."

He opens it, grabs my hair, and stuffs the top of the bottle into my mouth with enough force to bang the back of my head against the wall.

Okay. Did not see that one coming. Touché.

"My sincerest apologies if this is _Freudian_," he hisses, tugging my hair to tilt my head back and send the water splashing into my mouth, then holding my nose. "But you've got a strong stomach for that kind of thing, don't you? And you'd better fucking drink before you drown."

I hold my breath for as long as I can, because, while I'm loath to admit it even to myself, the situation has deviated slightly from the course I expected. I didn't train for this.

But after a minute or so I have to breathe. I can't shake him off; he's got me pinned to the wall, his strength supplemented by rage. He smells like chemicals and blood. He's breathing down my neck, an awful, merciless smile on his face, and for the first time ever, I'm scared of him. So _this _is what it feels like. I hate it.

After I get away, I am going get him, and I am going to _break_ him. I'm going to leave him a sobbing, incoherent wreck on the ground. Unrecognizable. I'm going to wrench his very identity away from him and flay it to pieces.

But right now I'm choking and I have no choice but to gulp down the water so I can breathe. There's something in it other than water, I can smell it and taste it, but there's nothing I can do.

Ariel pulls back and settles in front of me, sitting cross-legged, still uncomfortably close, still with that awful smile. "You're trained to resist pain, aren't you?"

"Of course," I say hoarsely, coughing up a bit of water.

"Some kind of meditation, I'm sure."

"Something like that."

"Wouldn't it be awful if you lost the ability to focus on whatever technique it is you use?" Ariel says, leaning in to whisper in my ear. "And then someone were to come at you with a soldering iron, and a knife, and…"

Ohhhh. I get it now.

No. No, no, no. It would be awful. I don't want that to happen. Especially because he's right; I can already feel my focus slipping away, and it's the worst sensation I can dream of. I try to remember my training and I can't. I try to kick my brain up into plotting mode, where every possibility and course of action following present themselves to me neatly, and I can't. I try to keep myself from shrieking when he does exactly what he said he would do and I can't.

Stop. Stop. _Stop._

"You could apologize," Ariel suggests, tearing the buttons of my coat open and pushing my shirt up, tapping the soldering iron against my stomach and baring his teeth in a humorless smirk when I yell. "But you'd better make it good."

I want to threaten him, say something that will shake him to the core, but I can't think of anything. My mind is too hazy to see anything beyond the immediate situation, which means I'm alone with him, and right now he's terrifying. I can't remember anything my teachers said. I can't even remember who's left in the Arena. It's panic inducing. I hate him with all my being.

What if he actually kills me before I get away? I wasn't scared when he caught me because I knew of a hundred ways to escape handcuffs and it seemed inevitable that he would slip up sooner or later. But I can't remember any of them. If he keeps me drugged like this…

It simplifies things, though. Either Ariel will kill me here, or I will destroy him.

**Yeah, I don't know anymore, man.**


	52. Luka No

**Lots of armbars happening in this Arena, for some reason.**

**Fenris Carter, District Ten, 18**

Now I am going to kill this girl.

Veeery carefully.

She's insane. It's obvious at a glance. There's a mad, bloodthirsty glint in her eye, one that I recognize as an animal that's gone berserk. She'll fight to the death, through injury and pain, against all logic.

But to survive, I have to kill everyone. And so I will kill her.

Her biggest advantage is the weapons. I'll take them from her. I don't bother stopping her from slashing at me. She can't stab with a broken sword and it would take a very lucky hit to kill me with that short knife.

The knife blade cuts across my chest. I slap at it, knocking it from her hand and kicking it away before she can dive after it. She snarls and tries to get the sword edge to my throat, but I block her arm with mine and she doesn't come close.

Then she does something I'm not ready for at all: she drops the weapon and locks arms with me.

I don't understand. She is a strong girl, but I'm much, much stronger. She can't possibly–

She flips me over her shoulder.

Oh.

I hit the ground hard on my back. The girl dives after me, but I catch the blow aimed at my throat and we go rolling across the floor. I'll just snap her neck, I guess. But she's infuriatingly slippery, melting from my grip every time I get anywhere close. The blows she manages to land on me actually hurt. I get a hand on her throat and think the fight is about to be over, but she slips out from under it. My hand lands on the floor next to her head. She grabs my wrist with both hands to keep it there, swings her leg over my head, and brings the crook of her knee down hard on the back of my elbow.

_Crack._

Ow.

Ow ow. _Ow. _Is my arm broken? I think it might be. I've never broken something before.

That makes me angry. I yell and land a good hit on her and send her flying across the tunnel, prowling after her as she bounces off the wall and falls to the floor. She bares her teeth and rises to a crouch, dark brown eyes glinting in the dim light. I take a moment to scan the area for danger before engaging with her again.

Something is there. It's moving, farther down the tunnel. No. Not moving. Changing. The tunnel is changing somehow; it's getting… darker?

This is very bad. Every instinct tells me that I need to run. And so I do.

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

Of course, the tables eventually turn. The drug wears off. I get my wits back. Ariel shakes off whatever's taken hold of him. And realizes what he's done.

I watch idly as he dry heaves over a sink, then collapses to the floor, a bloody wrench still clutched in his hand.

"That was cruel," I observe.

Ariel throws the wrench at me without looking up. I duck and it bounces off a pipe above my head. He realizes his mistake instantly and lunges, grabbing the tool back before I can squirrel it away somewhere.

"Poor thing," I say sadly. "You're so scared."

"Stop."

"You know what I'm going to do to you, right?"

"_Stop."_

"That's what I said, but you didn't listen, did you?" I chide. "You monster."

He leans back against the lab counter, his head buried in his knees. He's crying. Again. Real, choked sobs this time. Ugly-crying, I bet, if I could only see his face.

"They might have felt bad for you, you know. You used to be sympathetic. But you're a bad guy now," I say softly. "I can do whatever I want to you and you know what they'll do? Watch. And cheer me on. And save the footage for later."

Ariel looks up. He's not angry. His eyes are empty and defeated and it's not what I want to see.

"You know what?" he says quietly, taking the knife from the counter. "I can't do this anymore."

**Viss Bardier, District Three, 17**

"I could fit through there," Luka remarks, pointing at the hole above the double doors.

"Luka, no. Just because you can doesn't mean you should."

"I bet I can see inside the room from up there."

"So?"

"So, they wouldn't put the hole there if there wasn't something to see."

"Why don't we just open the door?"

"Why would we just open the door, not knowing what's inside, when I could go up there to see? Pretty sure it's locked, anyway."

I scowl. "What if there's something up _there?"_

"I doubt it. Anyway, I think I'm the only person left who could fit through there. And I haven't seen any mutts since the Arena shifted." He jumps for a pipe and starts hauling himself up the wall with one arm. "Look, I'll just stick my head in. If it's even remotely sketchy, I won't go in."

"Curiosity killed the cat," I say weakly.

"And satisfaction brought it back."

At least he has the good sense to shut up when he sticks his head through the hole. I don't know why I have such a bad feeling about this. Luka's crawled into much scarier places than that and been fine. I guess I'm just nervous because I know I can't follow.

He wiggles completely into the hole, turns around to give me a thumbs up, and vanishes into the darkness.

I don't like this. I don't like this at all.

**Amaris da Costa, District Four, 17**

It's the fucking Thing again. I'm sick of it. Every fucking time.

Well, no, this is the second time I've run into it, and only the first while I was trying to kill someone. But _still. _I resent that. And I had him right where I wanted him.

I take off after Wolfman, metal tentacle thingies snapping at my heels. Wolfman charges through door after door without slowing down, knocking one or two off their hinges, which clears the way nicely for me. He's surprisingly quick for someone so huge, which I make a mental note of.

The tunnel splits. I follow Wolfman.

Wrong choice, apparently. The Thing makes a crazy hissing sound and something wraps around my ankle, bringing me down on my face.

Nah. Fuck that. Not today, bitch. I kick it off and keep running. But I've gotten the message, and next time the tunnel splits, I take the opposite direction from Wolfman.

_Bang._

A wall slams down behind me and the Thing is gone. Not a door. A _wall. _Interesting. They don't want us fighting, I guess, probably because they know it would be a fight to the death, and they must want at least one of us alive.

Oh _boy._

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

I know the deal only applied if we weren't down to the final twelve, and I know twelve people must have died by now. But the deal doesn't really matter. I can't sit there and watch someone get murdered, no matter how stupid it is to interfere. Not after Caddis.

It crosses my mind that Viss might actually knock me out for this. I like her, but I'm scared of her. I know that's not right. I would worry about it more if the circumstances were different, but in the context of the Hunger Games, it is what it is.

I drop from the ceiling. Ariel Sevasti whirls, knife in hand, breathing hard.

Uh-oh. He's gone completely nuts. The scared, cornered kind that's capable of anything. He stares at me in confusion, like he's completely forgotten that anyone but him and Luther is in the Arena.

"… Fuck off," he finally says.

"I will if you let her go." I don't draw my knife. I will if I have to, I guess, but I really don't want to hurt him.

"No. But I won't kill her. I promise." He puts his knife down slowly. "See? She'll be fine, if you just… leave."

Luther catches my eye from behind him, her expression terrified and pleading. Her clothes are tattered and she's covered in blood. Her coat is torn open, her shirt pushed up. Did he…?

Maybe I _will _hurt him.

He must see my thought process on my face. "Luka, listen to me," he whispers. "You don't understand, she… s-she… I swear I didn't…"

Luther makes a muffled, scared noise.

"Seems like you did _something," _I say quietly.

"I–"

There's a bloody wrench on the counter next to me. And those little, bloody wounds all over her… He fucking tortured her. I might be sick.

"Why the _fuck _did you-?"

"Because she deserved it," he snarls, his apparent fear morphing to anger in a second flat. And now I've heard enough.

I deck him square in the jaw. And I may be small, and I only hit people when I have no other choice, but I know how to throw a punch. The knife goes flying as he goes down in a heap. I go after him, grab him by the hair with my hurt arm, and punch him again. And again. And again. Until he stops fighting back. My wrist hurts like a motherfucker, but I ignore it.

I pin him carefully, then run out of initiative and look up at Luther. "I can't kill him," I admit.

"I-I wasn't going to ask you to," she says shakily. "Just hold him down. C-Can you reach the knife? Slide it to me and I can get these off."

Ariel blinks and shakes the dizziness off. His eyes widen when he realizes what's happening. "Luka, _no, _you _have _to listen to me, please, she's–"

Chains rattle. Luther strides over, crouches down, and claps a hand over his mouth. She recovered fast. Really, _really _fast, if I'm right about what happened here. And the way Ariel cringes when she touches him…

Suddenly I have both the heebies _and _the jeebies about this whole situation, but it's unfounded. He's a torturer and possibly worse. She's just a little weird. Right?

Luther smiles at me. "Thank you so much."

"You're, uh, welcome, I guess?"

She starts messing with some of the chemicals on the counter.

"Um. What are you doing?" I ask. Ariel starts wriggling, so I punch him again. "Look, I see why you'd want to kill him, but could you, you know, not? Personal favor. Hate to play the I-saved-you card, but the screens and all…"

Luther chews her lip and sighs. Something about it strikes me as false. "I guess I owe you. Okay. I'll just knock him out so we can leave, alright?"

"O-kay?"

"No," Ariel mutters. He's trembling and the look on his face is pure terror. "No, no, no, no. Luka, please, I'm _begging _you, don't leave me alive for her."

I blink. "What?"

"Stab me, please. Right now. Now. I'm serious. Please?"

"… What?"

Luther covers his nose and mouth with a rag. He goes insane, screaming something I can't make out, almost bucking me off of his chest. It just makes him inhale the chemical faster. He goes limp.

"That was weird," I observe.

"He's a weird guy. Clearly," she says, inspecting a particularly nasty burn on her arm. Fair enough.

"So… I guess we're leaving now? Viss will be losing her mind about now, so I really oughta…"

"Mm-hmm. Just a few things I need to do."

I frown. "What things?"

"Just little ones," she says lightly, pouring a bottle down the sink and stuffing a tangle of wires into a backpack. "Keep an eye on him."

She slips the handcuffs into her bag.

This is weird. This is really fucking weird.

**Oh, Luka. He does his best. Also, yeah, someone Amaris-sized can throw someone Fenris-sized if they know what they're doing.**


	53. Guilt By Association

**Desdemona Crow, District 8, 13**

People keep trying to protect me. Every time, someone attacks, and I can't kill the attacker, and my allies die. I'm sick of it.

I know I heard Felicity's voice right before someone shot at me, but I couldn't find her. What I _did _find was a pool of blood in a tunnel right near where it sounded like she was. Near where the person trying to shoot me must have been. If I'm right and she and the shooter confronted each other… I just can't convince myself Felicity was the one who walked away. I can't think of anyone left in the Arena who she could've killed. Including me.

I do want to win. I have every right to win. And if this Arena is already a bloody mess of murder and crazy people, well… I don't feel that bad about my decision. To do what it takes. Play to win.

I have Atlas's knife and I'm going to kill someone with it. Whoever I can find, unless they're an old ally of mine, miraculously alive. I'm not going to be scared of dying because failure means death anyway. I want to go home. I just really, really want to go home and everyone here has to die for me to go home but they're going to die anyway and all I can do is fight.

_But I might die. I'll still probably die. _I can't push the sickening thought from my head.

That might be what I miss most about having allies. The distraction. The illusion of normalcy, making me forget that in all likelihood, my life is over. All that time I spent learning and studying, but I'll never get to use it. I wanted to be good. That's what I don't understand. I wanted to help Panem, build something to make people happier, and they're killing me, and I just don't know why. Does my death make the world a better place? What did I do? I'm innocent, I think.

But she isn't.

I freeze as I round a corner just in time to catch long blond hair whipping around the next one. The One girl. Amelia, the one I shot at before. This time I won't hold back.

I don't know if she's killed anyone personally and I don't really care. She's guilty by association. She willingly allied with people like the Two girl, who pushed Castalia in that acid pit and killed Elfor, maybe killed Felicity…

I'm not the only one who deserves to win, but the Careers deserve to die.

**Kaya Redfell, District Seven, 18**

Those poor fuckers have no idea what they've gotten into.

I follow them because it's better than leaving. I don't exactly like being this close to Luther, but at least I know where she is and she doesn't know where I am.

I hope. I really hope.

I could practically see Viss's hackles rise when the lab door opened and Luther strode out, Luka skulking after her. It was tense, but they didn't fight. Only I know that Viss has shown way too many cards. Luther knows damn well that Viss doesn't like her, so Luther won't like Viss, and I've seen firsthand what happens to people Luther doesn't like.

Speaking of which…

When Luther and the Threes are long gone, I stick my head into the lab. Ariel is still there, on his back, out cold, but breathing.

Hmm.

It would be laughably easy to kill him and I think I've got it in me to do it. Hell, I'd be doing the poor guy a favor. But god _damn _does he make a good decoy. There's one person Luther hates more than me, and that's him; I know because she left him alive. At some point in the near future, he is _in _for it.

Besides, I feel like if I killed him, she'd sense it with whatever evil superpowers she's got and hate me even more for breaking her toy. Better to just leave him be.

I scamper after the trio instead, following them through a dimly-lit, cement-floored tunnel lined with lockers. There's not much cover, but they're loud enough that I don't have to get close.

I think I know Luther's strategy. She's trying to win Luka's loyalty from Viss, flattering him endlessly, going on about how wonderful and brave he was to fight Ariel like that. I can't tell if it's working—I just can't imagine her being quite as clever as she thinks she is in that particular domain—but I can imagine the look on Viss's face.

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

Enough. I'm done. I'm out.

I can't shoot or stab myself because I'm a fucking coward, and anyway, it looks like she took all the weapons. But drinking poison? I can do that.

I lunge for the carbamate. I'm so dizzy I trip over my own feet and crash to the ground, but I don't feel any pain as my knees hit the concrete, I just stumble and claw my way to the counter.

I grab the bottle. It's way too light.

No. Please no.

I tip it upside down for in case I'm somehow wrong. My stomach twists as a single scrap of paper flutters out, a heart drawn on it.

She's coming back for me, to make good on all her threats. She was playing with me before. Now she's angry and I can't face her. Not won't. Can't. I can't fight anymore. I can't take what I know she'll deal out.

The bloody wrench gleams at me from the counter. She left me that. To remind me what she made me do, and what she's going to do to me. Can I kill myself with it? I don't see how.

I go for the methanol. Empty. Everything that wouldn't leave me in excruciating pain, empty, empty, empty. I can't think. I can barely breathe. That look she gave me while she was holding the rag over my nose… She's going to rip me to pieces.

She never found the bomb. She took the dirty grenade—I don't want to know what she wants with it—but she never saw the bomb.

I dive headlong into the junk pile, scattering stuff left and right. It takes all my strength to drag it over to a clear area. There were a few safeties and details I meant to add, but fuck it. I put my finger on the switch and close my eyes.

"Sorry, Amelia," I mutter.

Nothing happens.

I make a strangled, incoherent sound, flipping the switch back and forth. Absolutely nothing happens. I flip the secondary, fuck-everything-for-fifty-miles switch on impulse. Still nothing. I can't breathe.

She never touched it. I know she didn't. Did I make some kind of mistake? I must have. The one fucking thing I'm supposed to be able to do, and I fucked it up. But there's no way I can troubleshoot now; I can't keep a train of thought heading in the same direction for more than ten seconds at a time before having a meltdown.

Amelia. I need Amelia. I can't believe I just tried to do that. I'm going to find her, and if I can't find her, I'll find some poison, rope, something sharp, whatever. Even though I know deep down the Gamemakers will never let me. I'll die when they allow it.

I stagger to my feet, kick the bomb out of pure frustration, and run away.

**The Capitol**

"That was a good decision," Deyna Balthazar said without taking his eyes from the screen.

"What?"

"Giving him faulty switches. That would have been far too abrupt an end to the Games, and I doubt we would have been able to salvage a Victor."

Tibbi opened her mouth and closed it again. "Er… yes, sir. Precisely my thought process."

"Though of course, if he can't detonate it, now we're left with a massive nuclear bomb on our hands."

"I suppose that's true."

"What a shame we don't have much use for something like that."

Tibbi bit her lip. "Of course we don't."


	54. Clear Shot

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

I'm awoken by a gunshot.

A zillion thoughts race through my head at once and coalesce into something along the lines of _oh shit. _Whatever survival instincts I have kick in and I stay still for a split second. I know that's a rule: if you wake up and don't know where you are or what's going on, but you suspect that Bad Things are happening, figure out the situation before making it obvious that you're awake.

I know it's dark without opening my eyes. I'm in the Arena. Right. I'd sort of been hoping that was a bad dream, but no such luck. I'm not in any more pain than usual, so if somebody got shot, it wasn't me. That's nice.

Viss?

I open my eyes as the echo of the gunshot echoes through the tunnel. Something moves next to me, silhouetted against the orange emergency lights. Two figures, female, one bony with choppy, short hair, one stocky and curly-haired. Fighting over something that glints.

I knew it. Why did I go to sleep? Natural selection would've drop-kicked my sorry ass out of the gene pool long ago if not for Viss.

Another gunshot. I freeze in the middle of scrambling toward the girls.

The lights stayed on in one of the office rooms lining the hallway, for whatever reason, spilling out over the floor in a sharp, lopsided rectangle. Viss and Luther tumble into the light. They're definitely fighting for control of a knife. So who's shooting?

And more importantly, what do I do? Jump right into their wrestling match? Try to find a gun in the dark? What? This is why I don't make the decisions.

Two more shots. Footsteps racing toward us from the far side of the office door. Luther scrambles free of Viss's grip and runs at me. Unintentionally, I bet; she's blinded by the fluorescent light and can't see me. She crashes into me before I can react and we go down in a heap.

Another shot. Something cuts my face. Shrapnel, I think, from how close that bullet hit.

"Stop shooting!" Viss screams at the mystery person. She's slumped over in the light, head hanging, definitely dazed.

_Bang._

Mystery person has their own agenda, I guess.

"Grab Luther!" a female voice snarls. "Let me get a clear shot."

_Bang._

"You don't have one!" I yelp as the concrete next to my head explodes and almost takes my eye out.

My first thought is to chuck Luther into the light, so the person can see her and maybe stop shooting at me. It's immediately apparently that it's not going to happen. Luther's skinny, but she's older than me and several inches taller and very much on top of me and apparently determined to stay there. The nerve. At least buy me dinner first.

"Get _off _me," I grit out. I try to throw her off and can't. I'm stronger than I look, but apparently she is too, and she knows how to fight. Better than me, in fact. The hell?

She catches my wrists. I try to break her grip, but she anticipates the movement and uses the wrist pin to force me onto my side, and then to my knees. She wraps an arm around my neck from behind and shoves me forward into the light before I know what's happening.

Dad showed me how to get out of a rear choke. I know he did. Too bad I'm a dipshit.

Now _I'm _half-blinded, but I think I see Kaya hesitate, then raise the gun. My heart skips a beat. Of course she'll kill me to get to Luther; why wouldn't she? Hell, putting a bullet in me is a nice little bonus for her. I squirm and Luther tightens her grip until I'm gasping for air. I'm gonna die. I mean, I knew I was gonna die since the escort read my name, but… I didn't _really._

"I wouldn't do that, Kaya darling," Luther says softly, peeking over my shoulder. She's the definition of slimy. Her touching me is like being stuck somewhere small and dark and gross: it's not hurting me, exactly, but I need it to stop _right now._

I tug at her arm again and suddenly there's a knife jabbing against the soft spot under my right ear. I narrowly bite back the obligatory pathetic whimper. I can practically see Viss's stress level jack up to maximum.

But Kaya just sighs. She seems more tired than anything else. "Do you go out of your way to sound like a comic book villain?"

"You remember Viss, I'm sure?" Luther purrs from way too close to my ear. "Here's the thing: Viss is awfully close to you, and she's holding a knife. If you kill her poor darling Luka, then even if you shoot her, she'll have plenty of time to kill you before she dies."

I frown and try to work out exactly what's going on here. Man, this is complicated. But there's a clear way out for Kaya: shoot Viss a couple times, then me, then Luther.

Everyone seems to figure that little tidbit out at the same time and everything happens at once.

Kaya starts to swing the pistol toward Viss. Viss launches herself at Kaya. Luther tenses to stab me, I guess just to snag the easy kill while it's available. I don't know what to do, so I go on instinct again: when in doubt, fight dirty.

I let go of her arm and grab her hair, dragging her to the right. The pressure of the knife vanishes as she falls to the side and catches herself on that arm. She tries to keep her grip on me, but I throw an elbow at her head and she must decide it's not worth it. She kicks away from me, grabs a backpack, and vanishes into the dark.

Kaya pulls her gun arm free of her scrap with Viss. I dive for one of the pistols Luther left behind, but Kaya's still more interested in killing her than us. She fires a few more times as I get my hands on a gun. It's too dark. The sound of Luther's quiet footsteps fades and vanishes and Kaya and I find ourselves in a halfhearted standoff.

"Truce?" Kaya offers.

I glance at Viss, whose face is bruised and bloody, her hair all over the place. She scowls and spits blood on the ground. "What, 'cause that went so well last time?"

"No one's taking Luther out alone," Kaya points out.

"You think so? Think I could've gotten her if she didn't get the jump on me."

"Believe me, I've seen her in action. I bet you guys are the last alliance standing. If we don't get her, she's going to win. Imagine her out there with Victor resources."

Viss hesitates.

"You said she got the jump on you. She can do it again. You want to leave him alone in the Arena with her?" Kaya says, gesturing at me.

I feel a bit condescended to—I'm a tribute, not a bullshit escort mission, dammit—but she's got a point. I do not in fact want to be alone with Luther. Luther is awful and creepy and makes me feel like I need to shower for three hours. Luther is the personification of getting worms dropped down the back of my shirt. Luther, I think, would not kill me quickly if my life were in her hands.

… Wait. Luther doing terrible, awful things to people, apparently just for kicks. Maybe specifically boys.

Ohhhhh. _That's _what he was trying to tell me. And I left him alive for her to track down, just what he said not to do.

Oops.

"Ariel," I say out loud.

Viss blinks. "What?"

"Ariel!" I repeat, jumping to my feet. "The two of them. They've got some kind of nasty feud. She's gonna go after him. It's gonna be bad, really really bad."

Kaya bites her lip. "Er… yeah, that's probably true," she says, rubbing the back of her neck guiltily.

Viss narrows her eyes at me. "You're saying _you _want to go hunting Luther down?"

"I… what? No. Not hunting her down. I don't care about that. But we can't let her find him."

"Sure we can."

"No, we can't. Viss, you didn't see it, he…" I trail off, wincing. Oh, man. I fucked up. I really, really fucked up. I glance down the hallway in the direction Luther vanished, but it's just gaping blackness, which is so much worse than having her here. If she's not here, she's everywhere.

Kaya jumps on. "Come on, Viss, you know this is the best chance we'll get. There are three of us, she doesn't have a gun, and we can guess where she's going. Hell, we can beat her there; she went the wrong way. We _have _to take her out."

Viss scowls. "Fine. We'll go back to the lab and shoot her in the face, and then…"

"Then I'll walk away, and I hope you won't shoot me in the back," Kaya shrugs. I can't tell if she's telling the truth or not. She's one of those people. I like her, though. I think she's nice, just pragmatic.

We gather up our stuff and start back in the direction we came. Viss, I notice, plants herself squarely between Kaya and I.

We've barely made it two steps when something moves behind us, in the direction Luther went. All three of us whirl around, pointing guns into the darkness.

A tall, skinny figure with shortish brown hair limps into the light. But it's not Luther. It's Ariel. Dead-eyed, staring at the ground, shaking hands held in the air placatingly in the face of three guns. She must've run right past him. No wonder he looks like he's about to have a heart attack. His face is still bloody from me beating him up and it makes me feel awful.

"The fuck?" Viss mutters.

Ariel gulps. "I-I, um… I couldn't help overhearing," he says, his voice barely audible. "That you guys are trying to k-kill her, that is."

Viss and Kaya exchange glances. Guess my opinion doesn't count. Again.

"Let me guess," Viss sighs. "You want to join whatever the hell anti-Luther crusade thing this is?"

Ariel nods. "I have to know she's dead," he says. _And I don't want to be alone while she's alive, _his face adds. "I know how she operates. And I-I don't think you should go to the lab."

"How come?" Kaya asks.

"Because she'll expect it. Y-You have to know what she knows. If she can guess what you'll do… don't do it. Ever."

"So what _won't _she expect?"

Ariel gulps. "That you'll have me."

"What use are you?" Viss snaps. I give her a Look—isn't it obvious that he's in enough distress as it is?—but she doesn't notice.

"Well…" Ariel takes an _I-can't-believe-I'm-about-to-do-this _breath. "Bait."

Viss considers that. "Huh."

"On one condition."

"What's that?"

"She doesn't catch me alive. No matter _what_. I-If everything goes wrong and you can't kill her or save me…"

Kaya frowns. "Then we come after you?"

"Then you kill me before she can… do anything. Get the shot, take it."

"Works for me," Viss shrugs.

Ariel swoops into her face. "I'm fucking serious, okay?" he hisses, gritting his teeth. "I'm not saying you _can _shoot me. I'm saying you _will _shoot me, or I will fucking come after you if I get away from her, and if you think I'm crazy now…"

Viss just gives him her usual basilisk stare. "Don't worry. I'll kill you."

Ariel hesitates, then nods curtly. "I can't wait."

**So. Luther vs. clusterfuck squad. Also bouncing around are Amelia, Amaris, Des, and Fenris. Bets?**


	55. Snugglebunny

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

In the Capitol's parallel fantasy universe, the Arena is somewhere to feel righteous and triumphant. Nothing else is acknowledged as existing. I don't _think_ they believe it. Could they really be shallow enough to revel in the Victor's triumph, but simply not understand what everyone else experiences? Is it willful ignorance, or are they really that far gone? Does the thought not cross their mind that innocent kids are suffering? Or is that just not wrong to them?

Despite the official narrative of guns and glory, I knew I would spend a lot of time being some combination of sad, scared, and angry. We all did. I was as ready for it as I could be, and I'm handling it well enough, I suppose. I'm still here. I like to think I'm still thinking straight. I'm okay.

I was less prepared for the quieter things. The loneliness. Guilt. Regret. The feelings that you can't fix easily, ones I'm starting to realize will follow me out of the Arena if I leave here alive.

This hallway is one of the stark, metallic, eerily clean ones. The tile floor is a pale blue-grey, stretching on endlessly, lined with identical metal doors. Each door has a window with a white shade pulled down on the other side. Some areas of the Arena are ominous, some feel safe, and some are obviously lethal, but this one just feels hopeless. It saps my will like heat into all that cold metal.

I know who I am, where I am, and what's happening, but all at once everything feels dreamlike. Why am I fighting? How did we get here? It's like I'm onstage and this whole thing is a sham, which is pretty much true. I've lost focus and snapped out of character, and now I'm just standing there under the bright lights, aluminum-foil sword drooping in my hand, contemplating the audience while my fellow actors look on in horror and silently beg me to keep saying my lines.

I wish Ariel were here. Not because I miss him or I'm worried for him, although those are true too. He just seems like the kind of person who knows a thing or two about the state of mind I'm in, even if his coping techniques are a bit much for me.

I lean against the wall and cross my arms, staring at my reflection in the window across from me. In some weird way, I don't want to leave the Arena. My memories of the real world seem bright and crowded and noisy. I've gotten used to being here, alone or close to it, walking through the cold silence. I don't want to go out there and be rich and famous. I don't know _what _I want.

Sleep, maybe. Yeah, that sounds good.

**Fenris Carter, District Ten, 18**

The fierce girl is gone, but I found another girl. The tall, skinny, short-haired one. I remember her from training. I don't like her. She's smug and dangerous. That's my least favorite kind of person.

I find her just as she's pulling a pistol from a hole in the wall, like she squirreled it away there earlier. That's my least favorite time to find people. I don't like today. I'm having a bad day. I found an apple, but there was a worm in it.

I follow her. If she goes somewhere dark, I'll attack her. But she stays in the light, winding around corner after corner, glancing around enough to keep me at a distance. The way she carries herself makes me wary of her. She doesn't look strong, but she walks like a predator: silent, alert but unafraid, and with a target in mind. She's hunting someone, and she's closing in.

But I'll kill her first.

The girl pauses outside a set of double doors. "Fenris?" she says.

I blink and scratch my head, staying in the shadows behind a few pipes and wires.

"Step into the light, please. I don't want to shoot you, but I will if I have to."

I hesitate.

"Fenris, I can _see _you, darling," she says with a half-smile. She sticks her lips out when she talks, so everything she says sounds like she's either talking to a baby or taunting someone. "It doesn't matter. I just have something very important to tell you."

"What?" I growl.

"Well, you've killed someone, haven't you?"

I frown as she opens the doors and strides into the lab, gesturing me after her. I stop in the doorway and keep an eye on the gun. "You mean the Eight boy?"

"Yes! That's exactly the one. I just wanted to tell you to be careful."

"How come? He's dead."

"But Kaya isn't," she says urgently.

"What?"

"Kaya Redfell. The District Seven girl. Tall, reddish hair?"

I nod slowly. "I remember her. So?"

"So, she was friends with the boy you killed, and there's a very good chance that if she catches your trail, she'll hunt you down. I'm telling you because I don't want her killing you. She's evil. Tortures her victims with a wrench _just like this,_" the girl says, picking up a bloody wrench from the counter and waving it in my face before dropping it in her backpack.

"Oh."

"She's very good at throwing axes, and she has guns. If she finds you before you find her… well, you'll be lucky if she shoots to kill."

I nod. "I should find her and kill her first. I understand."

The girl's face lights up. "Wonderful idea! You're so clever."

That makes me feel kind of happy. No one ever tells me I'm clever.

I nod again. "I'll go find her. I'll leave you alive because you told me."

She glances from me to the pistol and back. "… Thank you, that's very generous."

I don't know how to respond to that, so I grunt and leave.

Kaya. I'll find Kaya and kill her.

**Amaris da Costa, District Four, 17**

Where the fuck _is _everyone?

Ugh. _Ugh._

**Viss Bardier, District Three, 17**

"Good moooorning, sunshine," Luka's cheerful voice rings out from right next to my ear.

"Fuck you and everything you stand for," I groan.

"That's not nice."

"I'm not nice."

"Aw, I bet you are deep down. I bet you're a big ol' snugglebunny. You probably love petting kittens. If you met my dad, you'd love him, and you'd love his snickerdoodles, and you'd love Chekhov–"

"I'm never gonna meet your dad, Luka."

His face falls and he shuts up and I feel like a monster. Why do I do that? Shoot him down every fucking time? It's not even a conscious thought, just a reflex. It's probably a good thing he'll be walking out of here alone, because I'm no good for him. No, not _no good, _I'm awful. He flinches if I move my arm too fast. I can tell when he disagrees with me on something, but he almost never speaks up. He listens to me half because he likes me and half because he's scared not to.

But I'm not here to date him or dance around his feelings. I'm here to deliver him to his father, sane and whole, gift-wrapped with a goddamn bow on his head, whether he likes it or not. And clearly the answer is "not". Tough.

I glance up and catch Ariel's wide green eyes. "What're you looking at?" I snarl.

He gulps. "N-Nothing."

Part of me feels bad for how cowed he and Luka are. Part of me… doesn't.

"Now what?" Kaya asks. "Do we even have a plan?"

There's a collective shrug.

She's not sure who to address, I can tell. Ariel's probably the smartest person here and the one who knows Luther the best. I'm the most… authoritative. And Luka's the only one everyone actually likes. He's the only person Ariel will look in the eye, even though I'm pretty sure Luka beat him up from the discussion I overheard while they were on watch. Guess they worked it out. I'm not sure what his problem with Kaya is and I don't really care.

I'm the bad guy here, I realize. The least enthusiastic one about our little mission, although of course Luka's only on board because the idea of getting rid of Luther makes the other two happy. Ariel is meek, aside from the occasional, brief bout of vicious anger, but that doesn't count; he's obviously halfway out of his mind. Kaya's being diplomatic. And I'm being argumentative and grumpy and pointlessly cruel. I don't particularly want to be, I just am.

Suddenly I'm worried that Luka will realize how unpleasant I am, and that Kaya can watch his back just as well as I can, so why should he put up with me kicking him around? Why _do_ I kick him around? Why the fuck am I so mean? I'm acting like a kid throwing things at the boy she likes, only instead of childish insults it's reminding him that at least one of us is going to die, and instead of tossing sticks it's hitting him hard enough to make him scared of me, and instead of me being a little kid with an excuse it's me being fucked-up to the core.

I could've been like Luka. When I was born, there was nothing wrong with me. I could've grown into someone people would look at in a situation like this and say, she deserves to live. She makes people happy. The world would be a worse place without her.

But I didn't. I became violent, useless scum instead. Good thing I'm here, I guess. Me and not someone else. Someone who deserves to live a long, happy life, and has a chance of doing it.

Luka bumps my shoulder and gives me a _you okay? _look and my stomach does a funny little twist.

Oh, fuck no. You've got to be kidding me. I'm not doing this.

But that's the thing about Luka. For all his obliviousness and impulsiveness and everything in between, he has a social intelligence like nothing I've seen before. He knows I'm upset. He knows making me talk about it will make me visibly upset, and that if I get visibly upset in front of a group of people, I will flip a metaphorical table. So he backs off for now. But damn him, he's not going to let this go.

"We have to find her first if we want to kill her," Luka says out of nowhere. "Any ideas?"

Ariel, who was dozing off, jumps and straightens up. "She'll come to us if she knows where I am."

"So just run around screaming at the top of your lungs until she pops up?" Kaya suggests.

"I think… the Gamemakers will help."

"Help us beat her?"

"No. I-I don't know what they'll do once we find her. But they'll want us to run into her. If I _did _start yelling, they'd bring her close enough to hear."

"She'd be suspicious, though," Kaya points out.

"N-Not if it seemed like there was a reason for it. If I looked hurt or something." He pulls a pencil and notebook from his coat. "I-I don't really know my way around the Arena since it changed, but the pit is still there. It's probably the best place. Sound would carry."

Kaya scoots over to look at the impromptu map he's sketching. Luka and I stand up, but instead of crossing the hallway to see Ariel's map, Luka pushes the door of one of the office rooms open and raises an eyebrow. I roll my eyes. He gives me a look.

Kaya glances up as I sigh and follow him in, but doesn't say anything. I guess this was the most privacy we could hope for. I have no idea what Kaya thinks we'll be getting up to in here, but whatever; it didn't involve making a scene and that's all I care about.

"So what's wrong?" Luka says quietly.

"Nothing."

"Look, I don't wanna make you talk if it's just gonna make you feel worse about whatever it is, but… give it a shot?"

What am I supposed to say, exactly? _Oh, I'm just sad because I realized I'm barely human. I've got no hopes, dreams, family, friends, deep thoughts, creative ability, education, nothing. I'm a pile of cells with human DNA but I don't have the spark that makes you worthwhile. I might as well be a machine, a fucking pointless one that burns a whole lot of resources and should've been decommissioned years ago._

I look over his shoulder and feel my face slip into the familiar blankness. It's comforting. "It's not useful to talk about it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Please?"

"Drop it." I coat the words in all the cold menace I can find, because I want to see him suck in a breath and step back, because… because why? Why the hell do I want that?

But he doesn't react aside from a concerned tilt of his head. It feels like a punch to the gut. He's more worried about me than he is scared of me. I don't want this. I never should've talked to him. I set myself up for this and I fucking knew it, that he'd become important to me, and either I'd lose him or he'd turn on me.

Earlier, I imagined his innocence being an act. Him using me for protection and then stabbing me in the back. The thought hurt, but not too much. It was just death, after all. Just one last betrayal. Nothing that mattered in the end.

I never saw him turning on me like this. Getting way too close and knocking everything down. Making it so I _can _be hurt. I remember him asking on the train if apathy was how I dealt with things, and me saying no, there's nothing to deal with, I'm not _doing _anything, I just _am _this way. I thought I was telling the truth.

I'm crying.

Yes, Luka, this is how I deal with things. Or at least it _was. _Are you fucking happy now?

"Aw, fuck, Viss, I–"

He takes a step forward like he's going to try to hug me and I lash out. It's not a slap this time, it's a full-on punch, and he's surprised enough that it sends him sprawling onto the floor.

I will him to get angry. Please get angry. I know how to deal with that. Attack me, try to kill me, kill me, or give me a reason to kill him. End this, now, before it gets worse. Before he convinces me my life is worth anything. Before he makes me want to keep it. Before he makes me wonder if there's anything worthwhile out there besides him.

I make the mistake of looking at him, staring up at me from the floor, nothing but concern in his big brown eyes. Luka, I realize, is not stupid. Luka is terrifyingly strong. He's small and vulnerable and fearless anyway. He trusts everyone, knowing that some of them will break his heart or worse. The world is a savage, bloody battlefield but he walks out there without armor because he knows he can take it.

I can't lose him. But now I'm scared to die, because that means losing him, too, and I know it shouldn't be like this, but I need him. Not want, not desire, not love. Need. He cares, and that means I'm worth something.

One of us is going to die. But I'm not dead yet and neither is he. I'm drawn to his heartbeat like I've been freezing and he's a fire. I don't want to kiss him or sleep with him, I want to hug him and look at him and think about him and try to comprehend that he exists, and try not to think too much about myself. That ruins it. Imagining him _with me _just makes the whole picture dark and dirty in the worst way. I just want to live in a world with him in it.

I sink to the ground next to him and he reaches for me again with no hesitation, even though I just punched him for doing the same thing. But this time I grab him and hang on with all my strength. I'm still crying, I think, but silently, and I guess it doesn't matter.

"It'll be okay, y'know," he says quietly.

"How?"

"I dunno, but… it's okay for now. Right?"

"Yeah."

**This makes 100k words! Yay?**


	56. Monster In The Walls

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

Everything is coming together beautifully. I can't stop smiling. The world is going to feel so _boring _after this, with too much attention on me for me to do anything fun, the Capitol breathing down my neck…

Eh, I'll find a way to make it interesting, I'm sure. I always do. This has been a wonderful learning experience. I've grown more careful, but more confident as well. Something about striding up the hallway of a fallout shelter, a full-length coat billowing behind oneself and a rifle on one's back, will do that. Tactics was great and all, but now it's time to dream a little bigger.

I work on the dirty grenade in Ariel's lab. I don't have specific plans for it, but I'm willing to bet my modifications will come in handy. I don't mess with the explosive mechanism itself—not my division—but electronics, I can do. I take out the safety chip in the firing mechanism, reroute a few wires, solder in a bridge and a new switch, and ta-da. Leverage. Let's see Amelia protect him from this.

Really. I want to see her try. I want to see the look on his face when I split her pretty blond skull.

I take a moment to meditate on the mental image of the spark in his eyes going out, that handsome face turning blank and empty. I'm going to kill him piece by piece. He's going to watch himself sacrifice his pride, feel his sanity buckle and crack as his intelligence slips away from him… By the time I let his heart stop, there will be nothing left.

I smile serenely and check my backpack to make sure the wrench is there. It is. Lovely. I think the Capitol and I have arrived at an understanding: I can hurt him however I want, as long as whatever marks I leave are aesthetically pleasing, or at least acceptable. I have some ideas.

A noise. Coming from the ceiling. Voices.

I draw the pistol and hide, but I don't think they're anywhere near here. The sound is distant and metallic, like it's echoing through the vents. The words are impossible to make out. There are several people, a mix of male and female, and one of them is Ariel.

So he found new friends. Interesting development. I love challenges.

And voices carrying like that is a new phenomenon, I think. The Gamemakers are giving me this, which I take as permission to go right ahead with what I've made it very, very clear I'm about to do.

There's already a big hole in the ceiling. I clamber onto a lab counter and jump for a pipe, barely making it with the weight of guns and bombs and so forth on my back, but I manage to hall myself up into the lattice of metal. They were always big on pull-ups in Tactics.

My flashlight reveals a rectangular hole in the wall, gaping dead black among the pipes and wires. The voices are coming from there. I stash my knife and slip in.

It takes all of my skill to keep silent. Any tiny noise I make echoes forever. But I'm getting closer, and I just love the idea of being the monster in the walls. Sure, there _could_ be other monsters in here, but there won't be. The Gamemakers seem to have done away with them entirely. The remaining tributes are monstrous enough.

At last I find myself looking through a grating at the tops of four familiar heads: Viss, Luka, Kaya, and Ariel. _Lovely. _This is lovely. They're sitting around in a dusty bedroom, talking about how to kill me. I don't need to hear what they're saying. They won't have time to carry out whatever their plan is.

I have a plan, too. And mine is better. There's just one thing I need.

I keep moving. There's nothing interesting in the next bedroom. But in the one past that, I find exactly what I'm looking for.

I fall from the vent onto a dull, threadbare bedspread. The room is elaborately decorated, telling some kind of tragic story about a lost father and stolen childhoods, but I don't care. Not about the books or photos or faded posters of insanely grinning cartoon characters. Not about the dingy, broken toys. What I want is the big, shiny new Radio Flyer wagon, perched on top of everything, its red paint obnoxiously bright against the other dust-streaked colors.

I smile despite myself when I see the note taped to it. The paper is blank, aside from a heart. What a strange sense of humor they have in the Capitol. Good thing it matches mine so well.

The bomb is securely strapped to my thigh, all the wires where I want them. There's a bottle in my pocket and a loaded gun on my belt. I take a few moments to breathe deeply and meditate before stepping into the hallway. This, I think, will be the last battle of our little war.

And he is _mine._

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

I peek into the office and see exactly what I tell myself I want to see: the tall Career girl lying behind the desk, fast asleep, a pistol slipping from her fingers. She looks even more plasticky up close. The roots of her hair are starting to grow in brown.

I have to do this. No question about it. Either she dies or I do, and the longer I stand here, the more likely it is that I'll lose my nerve. I grip my knife and creep closer.

She looks unhappy.

It's the last thought I want to have. I don't want to know how she feels. She's a Career. She's evil. So why isn't she happy as a clam, thrilled to be exactly where she wanted to be?

I don't care. It doesn't matter. People like her killed Castalia, and probably Felicity too, and Atlas and Ted indirectly. I should kill her. I will.

The reality sinks in that I'm crouching over a teenage girl, poised to slit her throat. Even though I've lived thirteen years and never hurt anyone. Even though there's no goddamn _reason _for any of this. In a world with hovercrafts and hair dye, they want me to act like an animal. To do something unspeakably brutal, so they won't be bored. They don't know there's a real person inside my head.

_Clink._

I gasp and sit up straight. There's something on the table behind her that wasn't there before. A gold-colored water bottle, patterned with birds.

My first thought is confusion. Why gold? Why birds? It's just a bottle. I've found some other sponsor gifts, but they were all functional and nondescript; why would someone put that extra effort in to send me something tacky?

Gold birds.

The Mockingjay.

My jaw drops. The graffiti. The gold birds on the TV screens. There's someone out there, someone trying to help us, and to buy us time until they can. They're asking me to spare Amelia.

I look down at her.

Her breathing. It's not slow enough. She's awake.

Oh, no.

I try to stand up, but her hand snaps up to grab my knife wrist. I pull and thrash and get nowhere. Why did I think this was a good idea? She's frighteningly strong, and I know too well just how easily she can kill me. She's going to put a bullet in my skull before I can even try to convince her not to, and what are the odds that she'd listen?

The muzzle of the pistol levels at my head. I make an involuntary squeaking sound.

Amelia meets my eyes and her face falls.

"What?" I ask, for lack of anything better.

"You're young," she says matter-of-factly, plucking the knife from my hand and lowering the gun. "I… I don't really want to kill you."

"Then don't."

"You were going to kill me. And you know I have to. At least I can make it quick."

"Yeah. But look behind you."

She raises an eyebrow. "How about I keep looking at you, and you tell me what's behind me?"

"The sponsor gift on the table. It's what woke you up."

Amelia must decide that an unarmed thirteen-year-old isn't a huge threat, because she turns around. For a second after she sees the bottle she's obviously confused, but then a flash of recognition crosses her eyes.

"Hmm," she says. "There was, I mean… before, with the screens, but I thought…"

"Yeah."

"Huh."

"I know."

There's something strangely likable about her, which is the last thing I want. Even if we're not going to kill each other, I've I liked enough people in this Arena already. If I get attached to one more person who then proceeds to die I might just explode.

"Well… bye, then," I say, sidling toward the door. She grabs me again. Fuck.

I mean, uh, darn. Sorry, Atlas.

"Why are you leaving?" Amelia asks.

"Because. Let go of me."

"Come on, Desdemona, you know I can't let you go in good conscience. If you die, and then, uh, something happens…" She trails off, gesturing vaguely, even though I think the Gamemakers-know-we-know-something's-up ship has already sailed. "I can protect you. Or at least I can try."

She knows my name?

"I've made it this far," I mumble.

_By letting good people die for me._

"I'm not asking you to be my best friend. I just think we should stay together."

I bite my lip. She's right. I know she's right, but… why is it going to be any different this time? I'm going to get attached. I think I already _am _attached. She's just so friendly I can't believe she's a Career. Her voice is low and deliberately gentle, but it doesn't come off like an act; she just really cares that she doesn't scare anyone by accident. All at once I get the feeling she's one of those people who go through something bad and are faced with a choice to turn justifiably bitter or become the most loving person for miles, and chooses the latter. How did she end up here?

I don't want to be alone. I really don't. Looking back on the thought process that brought me here to kill her scares me; I think I was going a little insane. I'm not a killer. It's not who I am. No matter what. But I owe it to my mom and sister to take any chance I can to survive, and Amelia is offering me one.

I take a deep breath. "Okay. I'll stay with you. Now what?"

"Now there's someone else I need to find."


	57. Cry For The Camera

**Kaya Redfell, District Seven, 18**

"So who's the best shot?" Ariel asks.

Viss, Luka, and I exchange glances. No one speaks up.

Ariel groans. "Look, if none of you are sure you can actually hit somebody, I don't want to do this. Feel free to just shoot me in the head now. Stand as close as you need to, I promise I won't laugh. Actually, just toss me a gun and I'll save you the–"

"I'm good enough," Viss growls.

"You didn't think so five seconds ago."

"I didn't feel like saying anything."

I can't put my finger on what it is about Viss that's so scary. That total lack of expression, I guess. She's scary like a tree falling on you. She's not out to get you, but your survival still depends on not being in her way. There's no negotiation.

"Nope. I don't buy it," Ariel says, shaking his head. "Fuck all this. I'm out. Give me a gun."

"Trust her," Luka says without looking up from his boots.

"Why?"

Luka shrugs. "It's gotten me far enough."

"Well, that's just fucking adorable for you, but I'd rather not bet my status as 'not currently being tortured' on the beauty of your relationship."

"You're the one who wants her dead the most," Viss says.

"Not worth it. You _do _know what she-?"

"Yes, Ariel, I know exactly what she did to you."

He makes a sound halfway between an exasperated huff and a snarl. "You think so?"

"Yes. _Exactly," _Viss enunciates._ "_It shows."

I don't know what she's talking about, but Ariel has a look on his face like she just slugged him square in the gut. Whatever just happened, it was a low blow.

"And you have no idea how much worse people can get," Viss growls.

"What, you've had an evil genius decide she needed to…?" He trails off, waving a hand around vaguely.

"I don't give a fuck how smart she is. Spend some time in a dark alley where I'm from and then tell me how scary Luther is."

I can't decide who's more upset out of the three of them. Viss's face is calm, but I can feel the cold fury radiating from her. Ariel is trying to be angry, but he's going to cry any second. Luka can't decide between asking Viss to lay off Ariel and freaking out over whatever she's implying.

Right on cue, Viss whips toward him. He freezes when he sees the look in her eyes. "And don't you fucking _dare_," she hisses.

How do I keep ending up in these situations? First Luther going all skeevy on Ariel, now this. I stay quiet and studiously avoid eye contact.

"How about this?" Luka suggests. "We all agree that _both _of your lives suck, and that both City Eleven and Luther are terrible in their own unique, special way? Please?"

Ariel is leaning against the wall, his head turned away from us. Viss seems to run out of steam all at once. Her shoulders slump and she puts the gun in her belt, staring at the floor. I think she knows she should apologize, but she won't.

"I'm sorry," she mutters at the ground.

Well, fuck me sideways. Luka's jaw drops, and I gather that he concurs.

Viss rolls her eyes. "Don't give me that look. Ariel?"

"Yeah?" he says without turning.

"I'm sorry. Really. I shouldn't have said that."

"It's okay. You're probably right. I mean, I don't… it's fine. But that reminds me, there's something I forgot to mention. About this whole plan."

"Yeah?"

"Even if you _do _kill Luther without her getting me, kill me too, okay?"

I feel bad for him, I really do, but my _God _is he a drama queen.

Viss blinks. "Any particular reason why?"

"A few, but let's not go there. I'm just done, okay? I told you that. I mean it. And I'm sober, before anyone asks."

Suddenly his attitude makes sense. I thought he seemed weirdly cheerful lately, but it's not because he's getting better. It's because he knows he's in the home stretch. I don't understand. If he can outlive Luther, why not keep fighting? What's he so scared of, other than her?

Luka, of course, objects. "What? No, Ariel, we're not killing–"

"You _do _know how the Hunger Games work, right?"

"Yeah, but…"

"Then you're welcome," Ariel says with a magnanimous grin. "I hope you know how goddamn lucky you are to be rid of me so easily."

Viss frowns. "You're not scary."

"Do you _want _me to be scary?"

Luka steps between them. "Nope. No, we don't. You're absolutely lovely just how you are now."

Ariel flinches. "Don't use that word."

"What word?"

"Forget it." Out of nowhere, he wheels on me, which I'm not even remotely prepared for. "You're awfully quiet."

I shrug. "I don't have much to contribute."

"Tackled anyone lately?"

"No. Uh, sorry about that. I didn't know she was going to–"

"Eh, no hard feelings. Hell, it'd be kinda sexy if not for…" Another of those vague hand waves.

I blink. I'm asexual, actually, but it doesn't seem like a point worth making. "Okay, well. Yeah. Sorry."

Ariel crosses his arms and looks me up and down, but not exactly in a lech way. More like he's appraising me as a competitor. "You're kind of a dark horse, aren't you?"

I raise an eyebrow. "I'm not sure if that's an insult or not."

"Not really. Just… you're quiet. I don't know what you're about."

"Maybe that's my strategy"

He considers that. "I'd say good luck, but I need you to die. Speaking of which, if you see Amelia, tell her I said hi, would you? And then preferably stand still and let her kill you. Which you won't. But I might as well ask."

"… O-kay?"

Amelia? Is _that _why he's doing this, rather than just walking away and offing himself, if he's really serious about that?

"Great. Brilliant. Now, can we get a move on before I have time to think about what I'm doing? We still have to figure out how to make it look like I'm hurt."

"I can hurt you," Viss offers.

"Okay."

Viss opens her mouth and closes it again. "Uh. Really?"

"Mm-hmm. Feel free. Whatever you think would work. All the same to me at this point."

Luka looks like he might be sick. "There has _got _to be a better way–"

Ariel starts laughing. Not in a happy way. In a helpless, crazed, hysterical kind of way. I don't think I'd feel bad about shooting him, but not because I'm that cold. It feel like putting down a dog that's just starting to succumb to rabies. Textbook mercy kill. His sanity is held together by duct tape and spite and he knows it.

His crazy laugh trails off into a strangled gasp. His expression melts from twisted happiness to pure terror, and I don't have to turn to know what's behind me.

Oh no.

Ohhhhhh fuck. I'm not ready for this.

"Someone _shoot her!" _Ariel screams.

"You'll all die if you do," Luther's low, singsong voice says from over my shoulder.

I take a deep breath and turn around slowly. There she is, standing in the doorway, that cold, lopsided smile on her face. So this is it, I guess. Here we go.

"Why?" Viss says flatly, her pistol aimed at Luther's head.

"This," Luther says brightly, dropping the handle of a red wagon—the fuck?—to point to her other hand. She's pressing two wires together. The wires stick out from some kind of messy device strapped to her thigh. "Dirty bomb. If these wires stop touching, it goes off."

Viss narrows her eyes. "You'd die too. You're not that crazy."

I wince. "I hate to be the downer here, but she is that crazy and more."

"I sure am," Luther grins. "But no need to worry. I think you know what I–"

Something blurs past me, flying at Luther. Ariel. What's he…?

Oh.

I lunge and tackle him, bringing him down at Luther's feet. Of course he'd rather set the bomb off and kill us all than let her catch him. Hell, that's the best case scenario for him: Luther's dead, he's dead, and he's cleared a few more obstacles from Amelia's path to victory. I don't blame him, exactly. But I'm not dying for him.

Or at least I don't intend to, but I'm not sure I can hold him down this time. I've got a hell of an adrenaline rush, but he's gone berserk, kicking and clawing at me with more force than anyone so skinny has a right to wield.

"Let _go!" _he screams, tugging an arm free and punching me square in the face. I try to hang on, but he thrashes from my grip. Luther's eyes widen. The bomb is definitely real.

Viss comes out of nowhere. Ariel's head slams against the wall and they collapse to the floor in a heap. He goes still for a second, and by the time he starts fighting again, Viss has him in some kind of chokehold from behind, her heels hooked over his legs.

I can see the exact moment where he realizes he can't stop what's going to happen. He goes limp all at once, his eyes going out of focus, breathing ragged, although that might just be the crook of Viss's elbow around his windpipe. I'm not sure, but I think I see her whisper an apology in his ear. She really does look sorry. He doesn't respond.

Luther smiles brightly. "Well, that was eventful. Kaya?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't trust you. Stand over there."

I hesitate, then cross the office to the spot she's pointing at. She pulls a pistol from her belt and points it at me with her free hand. My heart skips a beat, but after a few seconds pass I realize it's just a precaution. For now.

"And _you," _she says, grinning at Luka.

Now he _really _looks like he might throw up. "What?" he says hoarsely.

"Come here."

"Why?"

"Because we'll all die horribly if you don't."

He takes a few hesitant steps forward, swallowing hard as he comes face-to-face with Luther. Something like it, anyway; his eye level is somewhere around her chin.

"There's a bottle and a rag in my right coat pocket. Take them out."

Luka's face goes ashen. "I'm not knocking him out, if that's where you're going with this."

"Yes, you are."

"No."

_Bang._

I scream and collapse. It's a second before I realize the bullet didn't hit me. By the time I open my eyes, Luka has vaulted over the desk and is standing over me, wide-eyed.

Okay. I'm okay. Not dead. Yet. I'm okay. Deep breaths.

God _damn._

"Fuck," Luka breathes when he realizes it was a warning shot, but it's not a bluff. I'm very, very dispensable right now. "Oh, God."

All that emotion for someone he allied with a few hours ago. He's in for a rough time if Viss dies before him. Poor guy.

I stumble to my feet, legs shaking, to find Luther crouching down in front of Ariel, ruffling his hair and pulling it to make him face her when he tries to duck away. Viss is growling curses at her, trying to kick her back.

"I haven't forgotten about you, Luka darling," Luther says without taking her eyes off Ariel. "Get over here."

Luka gives me a scared look. I give him a _sorry, I can't help you _shrug back.

He crosses the room like he's walking to his death. Luther straightens up as he reaches her. Ariel is hyperventilating by now and I honestly feel awful for him, but there's just not anything we can do. Luther _will _kill us all if we don't hand him over. Of course, she might start shooting even if we cooperate, but I don't think she'd risk one of us shooting back. Not to mention that she probably regards us as a nice little dessert after she's through with Ariel. Whenever that might be.

"Luka," Luther says in the patient-but-not-really voice of a teacher who's about to slap you. "Take the bottle and the rag out of my pocket. Now."

He flinches like he's been hit at the last word and does what she says.

"I think you know what to do."

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

I want to go home.

With all my heart. I don't want to die. I don't want to be here. I want to magically appear in my kitchen and collapse on the tile in a sobbing mess and let my parents run out and hug me. I think they would. Wouldn't they? We've been awful to each other, but they love me, despite everything I've done. I'm still their son. Right?

"Luka, darling," Luther says. "For every five seconds you wait, I'm going to keep him alive for an extra hour. That's a bad thing, if you care about him at all."

And this _can't _be happening.

"No," Luka says weakly.

"Yes."

"Luther, please. I-I can't do this."

"I. Said. _Now."_ Her voice sinks to a hiss I haven't heard before. It's pure evil.

Luka won't do it. There's no way. He won't condemn me to that, because I _can't _take it. I remember how much she hurt me on the train, and that was when she was just curious. Playing. She hates me now. More than anything. Her number-one priority, above her own life, is making me suffer as much as she possibly can.

There's the sound of a bottle being unscrewed.

I gasp and open my eyes. Luka is looking back at me, wide-eyed, his hands shaking almost too much to hold the bottle. Almost.

"I'm sorry," he says helplessly, glancing from me to Kaya, who's staring down the barrel of the gun.

"Luka," I plead, fighting Viss's grip without really meaning to. "I-I can't do this, please don't make me do this, I-I…"

Viss chokes me until I can't talk anymore. Her priorities were always clear. She doesn't wish this on me, but she won't let me make it any worse for him than it has to be.

But I have to try. I catch his eye and beg silently. _Don't do this to me. Please, Luka, please, please, please don't let her have me._

Luka takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes and presses the rag over my nose.

"Cry for the camera, Ariel," Luther coos.

This can't be happening. Someone will do something. The Gamemakers. Kaya. Amelia. Someone. _Please._

I wait as long as I can, but eventually I have to breathe. I feel myself going unconscious in seconds. And I know I'm going to wake up in handcuffs, and then I'm going to be tortured like I can't imagine, and then I'm going to die.

**Luka Skade, District Three, 17**

I hope it'll get less awful once Ariel passes out, but it doesn't. He looks like a kid when he's unconscious. And it's all my fault; I'm the one who let her go.

"Very good," Luther gloats in my ear.

It takes every shred of self-control I have to stop myself from ripping her throat out. I exhale and it comes out as a feral growl. When did my voice get that deep?

That wasn't my voice.

"What?" Luther mutters.

Suddenly, Fenris.

Luther goes flying into me for the second time as Fenris charges through the doorway like a freight train through a building, knocking me out of my trance. She shrieks and tenses and I realize with a rush that the bomb is absolutely real. She's not bluffing. But she must manage to keep her grip on the wires, because I'm still breathing.

Fenris lunges at Kaya. I wriggle out from under Luther, throwing an opportunistic kick at her face, and charge after Fenris. Viss pushes Ariel away and runs after me.

Kaya doesn't have time to grab the pistol before Fenris slams into her. I hear bones breaking. I jump onto the desk and vault onto his back.

Or at least I try, but he must hear me coming, because he spins around and slams me to the floor like a goddamn basketball. I hit the ground on my face. He raises his foot and I realize that if it comes down on the back of my neck, I'm going to die.

It doesn't. He stumbles and turns around again. I look up and find Viss hanging onto his neck from behind, slashing and stabbing blindly. I'm splattered with blood. Fenris manages to back into a wall, but not with any real force. Viss keeps cutting.

He grabs her arm and drags her over his shoulder, throwing her into the desk. I should probably do something.

Fenris turns on Kaya again. She's slumped against the wall, barely conscious. I intercept him and almost take the bullet she somehow manages to fire, but it misses my side by an inch and hits Fenris's gut instead. I somehow end up with my boots against the wall and my elbows on his chest, bracing myself to hold him back from her.

I realize that this is maybe not the best situation a second too late. He grabs me by the throat and slams me against the wall.

_Bang._

Kaya shoots again. The bullet hits his arm and he drops me on top of her. She yells and I can tell from the sound that his first hit really hurt her, because there's no way my weight is enough to break anything. Now we're both in a heap at his feet and I lost my knife.

I look up to find Viss on his back again. Her knife sinks into his neck and I know at a glance that it's a fatal wound. She pulls the blade out and lets him bleed.

The wild anger leaves Fenris's face and suddenly he looks like a little kid, too, and I hate this about myself. I think I see people for who they are. _Why _they are, not just what it means for me. How everything they do makes sense from their perspective. Most people mean well, they really do, and I love knowing that most of the time.

But not now. Not when I have to watch so many of them die and feel it like a stab in my own chest every time, because he doesn't deserve this, Caddis didn't deserve it, none of us deserve this.

None of us but Luther. But I don't think she's human.

The adrenaline fades as Fenris stumbles and falls down dead.

Kaya's barely breathing.

Luther and Ariel are gone.

And there's a noise. Starting low, then rising to a scream before falling again, the sound making my blood run cold. Nuclear sirens.

I sit down hard and start to cry.

**On the bright side, final eight.**

**Moment of silence for Fenris Carter. Definitely one of the weirdest characters I've written, but I loved writing him, and he was endearing in how own terrifying way.**


	58. Intermission

**There are 15ish chapters left, this isn't actually the halfway point, lol.**

**The Capitol**

"Tibbi!" Cleo yelled, dragging her over to the holographic map in the center of the amphitheater-like room. "Look!"

"What?"

"Amaris!"

"What about her?"

"She's in the hallway next to Amelia and Desdemona. If we arrange this turn here–"

"No, not now."

Cleo blinked. "What? Why?"

"Because we don't need a death right now," Tibbi shrugged, pulling her silver hair into a bun.

Across the room, Deyna dialed the sirens back and played the recording of Jolltree's voice: "_Congratulations, tributes! You have all made it to the final eight. Our remaining competitors are the following: Amelia Bailey of District One! Viss Bardier and Luka Skade of District Three! Amaris da Costa of District Four! Luther Constantine and Ariel Sevasti of District Five! Kaya Redfell of District Seven! And Desdemona Crow of District Eight! Best of luck to you all, and may the best tribute win."_

Cleo shook her head uncertainly. "This is the first death in a long time. And Fife did say he'd personally throw us all out the window if we let people get bored–"

"No one's getting bored," Tibbi said flatly.

The live-broadcast screens switched from the tributes' reactions—Luka looking up in shock, Amelia running through at least five emotions in quick succession at the sound of Ariel's name—to a dark room. A few metal things glittered, but it was impossible to tell what the room was.

Until there was a soft snicker and the _click_ of a switch. Industrial fluorescent lights flickered on to reveal a big, mostly empty space, like an operating theater. Broken medical machinery lined the walls. In the middle of the floor was a metal operating table. On the operating table lay Ariel Sevasti, blindfolded and stripped to the waist, his wrists cuffed above his head to the low railing lining the table.

Cleo made a soft, uneasy whistling noise. "So are we… doing this?"

"Yes."

"It's… really very…" She trailed off, chewing her lip. "He's a kid, Tibs."

"So are the rest."

Luther swept into the frame, a wrench in one hand, granola bar in the other, smiling like a cat with a canary. "Hello, Capitolites," she said brightly, taking a hearty bite of the granola bar. "Isn't this exciting? I know I'm excited. I take requests, by the way."

"Ohhh," Cleo said slowly. "I get it."

"Exactly." Tibbi lowered her voice. "No one else has to die. Not as long as this goes on."

"And how long will that have to be?"

"As long as they let it."

**xxx**

Jolltree's first guest was a tall, wiry, brown-haired boy, clearly trying to look confident and comfortable for the cameras, not quite succeeding.

"Renx Henderson!" Jolltree grinned, shaking his hand and giving him an _it'll be okay _wink. "Hope you don't mind if I just introduce you to those who don't know. Everyone, meet Amelia Bailey's twin brother!"

The boy brightened up a bit when the crowd roared for him.

"Go on, smile, wave, we love you! Ah, this is an honor, it truly is. I'd ask you everything if I could, but I think you know what the topic of this interview must be."

"Sure, my br- sister, my sister," Renx corrected himself.

"Excellent place to start! Your sister used to be your brother. How do you feel about that?"

Renx gave Jolltree a weird look. "That's kinda personal, isn't it? Can't we talk about that Games?"

"Ah, but we've _been _talking about the Games, my dear boy; we've analyzed them to death here in the Capitol. We want to know about _her. _Who she is, where she comes from."

"Okay, well, she comes from our house," Renx said, leaning back in the interviewee chair and crossing his legs. "She likes to read. She likes girly things. Lots of friends. She's a good person."

"Do you think she'll win?"

"I know she'll win."

**xxx**

"So you two are…?"

"Vill," the scrawny boy said, leaning forward to peer around the wing of the chair and ducking back with a gasp when he saw the audience.

"And you?" Jolltree asked, giving the wide-eyed girl his kindest smile.

She stared at him.

"T-That's Eyon," the boy said. "She barely talks, ever. Can we go now?"

"Just a moment, just a moment. Now, we asked you to join us because we were, uh, told you two are friends with Viss Bardier."

"… What?"

"Viss. Viss Bardier. Your female tribute?"

Vill frowned. "Sure, but I don't know her. I think maybe I met her, once?"

"Oh. Okay. Well, why don't you tell me about that?"

"Uh… we were working on a project together. Fixing a wall or something. She and her brother were there, and we were working on the same–"

"Her _what?"_

"Her… her brother? At least I think so. They acted like it. He looked like her."

"Older or younger?" Jolltree asked, putting a finger to his earpiece and shooting his assistant backstage a _did anyone know about this? _look.

"Few years older."

"Is he still… around?"

The boy shrugged. "Never saw either again 'til she was on TV."

**xxx**

The man across from Jolltree would have been terrifying—easily six foot four, built like a grizzly bear, tattoos twining from the neck of his jacket—if not for his expression, which was on the verge of tears. The sensation was a bit like standing next to a tranquilized tiger. The beast was _probably _harmless. Probably. But maybe not.

"And you must be Luka's father," Jolltree began, giving the man a reassuring smile.

"Yes."

"Can you tell us about him?"

Joel Skade made a visible effort to get his voice under control. "I… I thought I was doing the right thing, teaching him to never be violent unless he had no other choice, help people, all of that, you know. Love everyone. Try to understand."

"What a nice thing to do."

"Not if he dies for it. And I'll always wonder, if I'd done something differently, let him turn into… someone who'd do well in the Hunger Games…"

"Someone like Miss Bardier?" Jolltree suggested. "She's formidable."

"She's not very happy, though, is she?" Skade sighed and crossed his arms like he thought his son would appear in them if he wished hard enough.

"She's helped him a lot."

"I know. I wish I could thank her for it, but that would mean…"

Jolltree patted his shoulder sympathetically. Skade looked up, and for a split second Jolltree considered calling for Peacekeepers. His expression was one that generally proceeded someone's spine being snapped.

But then it was gone. "I just want him back," Skade said quietly.

"And I wish you the best of luck."

**xxx**

"Ladies and gentlemen, let's say hello to Amani da Costa! Yes, yes, I know, isn't she beautiful? What an honor this is!"

The skinny girl gulped and bit her lip, staring at Jolltree with green eyes that stood out against her dark hair.

"Now, Amani, please tell us: is there any chance you'll follow in your sister's legendary footsteps and volunteer for the Hunger Games?"

"I doubt it," Amani said quietly. "I'm not good at fighting. And after seeing what's happened to her…"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, she was always a little… over-the-top. But she's not acting normal. It's not like we were super close, but still, I-I know her, and how she's been lately… Something's wrong with her."

"Oh, dear," Jolltree said, putting on his worried face. "Well, the Games will do that, I'm afraid."

"Me, too," Amani muttered.

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

"I'm quite sure it was something."

Amani scowled. "I'm afraid, okay? I'm scared she'll win."

"What?"

"A-And now that I said _that, _she'll see this interview and she'll kill me," Amani gulped. "She always wanted to."

"Oh, I'm sure she wouldn't do something like that."

"Er, Mr. Jolltree. No disrespect, but have you been watching the Hunger Games? I think Amaris would do something like that."

Jolltree considered that. "Touché."

**xxx**

"Due to circumstances beyond our control, there will be no interview for Luther Constantine."

**xxx**

Jolltree shook his head sadly as Dr. and Dr. Sevasti settled into the chairs across from him, both of them well into their fifties, but strikingly attractive. "I don't know what to say to you," he said in the most solemn tone he could muster. "Your poor son."

Ariel's mother pursed her lips, blank-faced. "Worse things have happened in the Hunger Games, and to better people, to be quite frank."

"But maybe if he comes home, it could be the catalyst for a change in your relationship with him?"

"At this point I think it would be better if he didn't."

"Oh," Jolltree said, shuffling his notes, but he didn't have a prepared response for that answer. "Er… why?"

Ariel's father raised an eyebrow. "He's something of a handful at the best of times. We were never quite compatible. Less so now, I think; he seems… very emotional lately. More so than usual. And that's quite a statement."

"Compatible?" Jolltree said, squinting a bit. "You weren't… _compatible_ with your son?"

"I'm afraid not. Very different temperaments. And, ahem, priorities."

A few people in the crowd wolf-whistled. Both interviewees winced.

"Ah, yes, he did describe you as 'puritanical', I believe," Jolltree said with a nod.

"He likes to use that description," the woman said coldly. "In reality, I don't believe we'd care what he got up to if he could be just a bit less ostentatious about it; it's the… theatricality that his father and I have always taken issue with. But he's always been happier pretending we're offended by his… proclivities than admitting that he can be simply exasperating."

"But he's your son, surely you love him–"

Ariel's father frowned. "By what definition? It would be inaccurate to say we were close by any stretch–"

"I… whatever definition you want, I don't know," Jolltree said, thoroughly lost. "How do _you _define love?"

The Sevastis exchanged puzzled looks.

"Well, it's subjective."

"Completely arbitrary, in fact. A social construct."

"Perhaps one could measure oxytocin levels, but to establish a baseline–"

**xxx**

"Now, Hazel, you're one of Kaya's best friends, along with these two handsome gentlemen."

The blonde, freckled girl licks her lips nervously. "That's fair, yeah. Not sure I'd call these ugly radishes _handsome, _but–"

"Oh, shut up," Dakota muttered.

"You shut up."

The second boy, Soren, bigger and older than the other two, took a _here we go again _breath and settled back in his chair.

"Now, Hazel," Jolltree cut in before the bickering could escalate. "I believe the footage of Kaya's Reaping reveals you getting a bit… emotional."

"What, you mean screaming my head off?" Hazel said matter-of-factly. "Yeah, sure. I was terrified for her. Still am. I can't deal with her dying, okay?"

Jolltree turned to the boys. "And I imagine you two feel the same?"

"Kaya stops Hazel from being an idiot sometimes," Dakota said gravely. "Only sometimes, mind, but still. We're a goddamn disaster without her. You wouldn't believe how many things I've had to pull Hazel out of. I mean literal holes in the ground; she just swan-dives in if you turn your back for two seconds."

"I like her because she shuts up sometimes," Soren added. "Not like these two."

"Hey!" Hazel protested.

Soren shrugged and leaned back again. "I'm not wrong."

"… True."

Jolltree nodded. "I see, I see. And do you think she'll make it back?"

"Definitely," Hazel said, something angry creeping into her voice.

"I think she has a good chance," Dakota says. "And I'm not just saying that because she's my friend. I'd be freaking out a lot more if I didn't really believe she'd come home."

"Could happen," Soren said. Hazel gave him a dirty look.

"And what if she doesn't?" Jolltree prompted.

Hazel's cheeks went red. "Then I will personally–"

"Cry very hard," Dakota cut her off. "And do nothing violent whatsoever."

"… Yeah, that."

"You've been in the Capitol for a few days now, correct?" Jolltree asked, deciding on a slightly risky tact. "Have you seen the most recent footage?"

Dakota frowned. "I don't think so. Why, what happened?"

Jolltree made a point of avoiding his eyes, celebrating internally when the boy half-rose from his seat, his face going ashen. What a perfect reaction.

"Mr. Jolltree, did something happen? Is Kaya okay?"

"Oh, dear," Jolltree said sadly. "Someone will have to fill you in."

**xxx**

"And our final interviewee, Rosalind Crow!" Jolltree cried, standing to shake the young woman's hand. "Now, I've been told that your entire family shares Desdemona's knack for math and science, is that true?"

"I suppose. Our mother is an electrical engineer, and I run the technical side of a textile factory."

"And your father?"

"I'm not interested in talking about that, thank you."

"If you insist. Let's talk about Des, then. You must know her better than anyone, except maybe your mother, I assume?"

"I think that's fair to say."

"What can you tell us about her, then?"

Rosalind bit her lip, slouching in her chair and brushing a flyaway lock of hair behind her ear. "That she's a kid. A fun, bright kid who doesn't mean anyone any harm. And she really wants to help people. She loves math and all that, but she wants to _do _something with it. Make Panem better."

"How very noble of her. Do you think she'll have that chance?"

Rosalind took a deep breath. "I have no idea. I've been so, so impressed with her so far. I didn't know she was that brave. But with two Careers still left, that Five girl… I don't know. I know she deserves to win, but I'd be lying if I said I expected her to. I just hope she'll be able to watch this interview someday and laugh at me for underestimating her."

"Well, I'm sure plenty of our audience agrees with you. Am I right? Am I right? Come on, let's hear it for Desdemona Crow!"

**xxx**

_We've received preliminary reports of a crowd outside the Gamemaker building growing violent and clashing with Peacekeepers. The building was not breached. The Peacekeepers did, of course, use only humane, completely safe crowd-control measures. However, six people were tragically killed in the chaos before the Peacekeepers could render the situation secure. President Fife would like to remind all Capitol citizens that your government is here to protect you, and that fighting with Peacekeepers is always counterproductive to your own best interests and those of the people around you. Remember, peace is a team effort._


	59. Aggressively Science-y

**Are you ready for nuclear science? I hope so, because here comes nuclear science!**

**Fun fact of the chapter: fission reactors get energy from a chain reaction where large atoms split and release neutrons, some percentage of which hit other atoms and trigger them to split as well. Atoms that behave like this are called "fissile" (or "fissionable" if the reaction isn't self-sustaining, but don't worry about that). The reaction can be slowed by placing neutron-absorbing, non-fissile materials among the fuel. Control rods made of such a material moderate the reaction rate in fission reactors by being raised and lowered among the fuel. Pulling them out heats the reactor up, because it allows more neutrons to hit the fuel. Dropping them lets them absorb more and cools it down.**

**Second fun fact: a "scram" is when a reactor is shut down quickly in an emergency. The popular story is that it stands for "safety control rod axe man" or "safety cut rope axe man", referencing a (thankfully now obsolete) emergency technique consisting of a dude with an axe who would cut a rope to drop the control rods if the chain reaction started going too fast and the primary systems failed.**

**Third fun fact: if a reactor is "critical", that means the chain reaction is self-sustaining. "Subcritical" means it's slowing down, and "supercritical" means it's speeding up. So if people in a movie panic about a reactor "going critical", you can laugh at them; that's what it's supposed to do. Supercritical is fine too, if it's being deliberately heated up or adjusted, but uncontrolled supercriticality is how you get meltdowns. Meltdowns are, as you would expect, when the fuel gets hot enough to melt, at which point it has a bad habit of finding its way to all sorts of places it's not supposed to go. Such as groundwater.**

**A few more details about critical mass: it's the mass of a given material at a given temperature/shape/etc. necessary for it to… well… go critical. Some amount of fission is happening in uranium and plutonium when they're just sitting around, but it's just individual atoms decaying at random, relatively slowly, and most of the neutrons fly off into the sunset. You get in trouble when enough of the material is close enough together for those neutrons' odds of hitting a nucleus to increase above a certain threshold where the chain reaction effect kicks in. (Hence the concept of "enrichment", or the purity of the material; the more of it is actually made of the fissile isotope, the explodier it is.)**

**In some cases, the line between "perfectly safe" and "very very supercritical" is thin enough to be crossed unknowingly. For example, one of the demon core accidents was caused by a scientist dropping a brick made of neutron-reflecting material onto the core, while the other happened when the scientist held a neutron-reflecting shell around the core open with a screwdriver. The screwdriver slipped, the shell closed, and bang. More reactions mean higher temperatures mean faster neutrons mean fewer reactions (which is a whole other can of worms we don't need to open), so in cases like this the material is usually only critical for a split second before they heat up and go subcritical again. Unfortunately, as Ariel mentioned, that's more than enough time to lethally irradiate everyone in the splash zone.**

**Fun, right? Disclaimer: my confidence level in all that is "it's more or less right". I know slightly more than the average bear but I'm emphatically not an expert in this irl.**

**Amaris da Costa, District Four, 18**

_Why are you stopping? _Mom's voice says in my head.

Because I'm tired. I've been running around for hours, not finding anyone, and it's wearing me out. I'll keep looking. I just need to sit down for a minute.

_Didn't you train for this? Running shouldn't be a problem for you._

I trained, sure, as hard as I could, but I'm just not built for endurance.

_You should have trained harder._

I'm sorry.

_Don't you care about me? I thought you would live up to my expectations. Someone has to. _

I care about you so much. And I know. I will. I'm going to win.

_It doesn't look like it right now, does it? Because there are still seven other tributes left. That's seven too many._

I'll get them.

I'm tired, though. So, so fucking tired; it's dawning on me that I haven't eaten in I don't even know how long. Should I sleep or eat? Or just… sit. My arm is starting to hurt. A lot.

I'm in one of the unfinished tunnels, the walls of rough rock, like they were blasted out with dynamite. It's dark aside from an emergency flare jammed into a holder every twenty feet or so. Have those been burning this whole time? Were they lit just for me? Am I the first one to come through here?

Where _is _everyone?

For a second I don't care about killing. I just want to see a living person. Anyone at all. Hell, I'd deign to look at Woohyun's stupid face.

And then I'd jam a knife in it, because I have to kill everyone left. But he's not left. He's dead.

Yeah. Good riddance.

I reach a metal hatch door in the wall, not quite closed. Doors are good. Doors go places other than here. Fuck being here. I yank it open and high-step through.

Much better. The new hallway is aggressively science-y and brightly lit, pipes and wires running along the ceilings, huge window-walls giving me a view of abandoned laboratories. Everything is neat and intact, but covered with a layer of undisturbed dust. Has no one else been through here, either? Fuckity.

I'm about to start breaking into the labs to see if some imaginary scientist left their lunch behind when something at the end of the hallway catches my eye. A bright yellow sign on the wall, at an angle so I can't read it from here. I jog over.

REACTOR 1 AIRLOCK

DO NOT ENTER WHEN LIGHT IS RED EVEN IF DOOR IS UNLOCKED

SCAN FOR CONTAMINATION BEFORE EXITING AIRLOCK

What light? I don't see any light. I'm not super clear on how nuclear reactors work, but my spidey senses tell me that probably I should not go in there.

Where I _should _go is the room across the hall. The one labeled _Control Room. _That sounds like fun. There's a keypad on the door, but the handle turns when I twist it. I creep inside.

My first thought is that it's way lower-tech than I expected. There are no huge displays or glowing touchscreens. Barely anything seems to be computerized. Paper graphs scroll slowly behind glass windows on the walls. One panel is covered in hundred and hundreds of old-fashioned resistors. The controls are all physical, row upon row of buttons and switches.

Probably I should not mess with them. Even though I _really _want to.

One of the few digital screens is forlornly black, aside from the bright green message blinking in the middle of it: _Emergency shutdown tier 1 initiated. Full SCRAM. Xenon-135 saturated in reactor vessel._

Another screen tells me a bit more. The temperature in the reactor is fifty-three degrees Celsius and dropping. I don't know what it should be, but that strikes me as pretty low for a nuclear reaction. The shutdown must have worked well, I guess?

Then I notice that some of the dust is disturbed after all. The cobwebs are broken over a few switches.

A tribute did this. Luther, Ariel, or maybe Desdemona; the rest wouldn't have a clue. I don't care which. I'm going to find them. And I think I know where to look, too. Why bother shutting down the reactor if they weren't planning on going in that room?

I scramble across the hall, punching the button to open the airlock door. A huge metal slab slides to the side. It's an eerie reminder of what I might be walking into, and for a moment I hesitate.

_Don't be a coward, Amaris._

Sorry.

The door closes behind me. Now I'm in a narrow little concrete and metal room, empty except for some kind of gizmo in the corner. The thing that scans for contamination, maybe. I put my hand against the glass out of curiosity and a light turns red.

Hmm. That can't be good. Merona's right; they had _better _fix my DNA after I win.

The far door opens and I step through.

The room is smaller than I expected. I'm in a concrete dome, standing in a thin path around the bottom of the tall cylinder in the center. Little metal ports break the surface here and there. A metal catwalk rings the top of the cylinder, with ladders leading up to it.

I hear something. Someone's up there. I'm going to kill them.

Before I can take a step, Luther appears at the railing of the catwalk. She has a pistol in one hand and a metal box tucked under the other arm.

Fuck.

She starts shooting. I start running.

_You're letting an outer-District tribute chase you away?_

I don't have a gun. She does. There's nothing I can do.

I yank the airlock door shut after me and sigh in relief when I hear it lock. There has to be some mechanism preventing them both from being open at once; she can't get in here until I'm out in the hallway and the outer door is shut.

So what would happen if the outer door _couldn't _shut?

It slides open. I step out and plant my broken sword in the gap before it closes again. The door hits it, machinery grinding in the wall, what's left of my blade bending, but whatever drives the door isn't strong enough to crush it. With any luck, she's stuck in there.

Not dead, though. I need her to be dead. And I think I can make that happen.

I skip back into the control room and look around for anything promising. Control rods, I think, are the things I want to mess with. And if shutting the reactor down meant putting xenon-135 in, then the xenon-135 needs to come out.

Beautiful _and _brilliant. Just like I said.

The control rods are all down. I lift them up. Reactor pump? Sure, why not? I turn it on.

And oh, look, there's a graph recording xenon levels. It nosedives. And the temperature climbs, and climbs, and climbs.

And climbs. And climbs some more.

_BOOM._

The ground shakes under me. I yelp and fall off my rolly chair.

I open the door of the control room cautiously, peeking out into the hallway. It's full of steam. Now and then I can see the airlock. The outer door has been knocked open a foot or so and seems to be stuck there. The inner one is bowed toward me, steam hissing around its edges.

I think I should leave.

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

One of the Peacekeepers I'm friendly with brought me profiles of all the other tributes before the Games began. Amaris acts like an idiot, but tested as having extremely high intelligence, particularly in the areas of strategy and logic. I know what I would do in her situation. The safe thing is to assume she'll reach the same conclusion, and successfully carry it out.

She turns and runs.

I have twenty-five, maybe thirty seconds to get out of here if she does what I'm afraid she'll do. The only way out is the pipe of the primary loop, which vanishes through the wall.

I jam the metal box into one of my huge coat pockets and dive into the reactor. The water is uncomfortably hot, enough so to burn me if I stick around, but that's the least of my worries. I kick and scramble my way down to the bottom of the vessel, below the control and fuel rods, where the output pipes are. They're just big enough for me to wriggle into one.

And this is where I have to think fast. I can't break the pipe; it's built to handle insane pressures. I pass something that feels like a huge valve, which is promising. If I'm passing the valve now, then I'm probably out of the reactor room, which means I should be hitting…

The generator. Okay. This is where it would be lovely if I could _see._

There's a humming noise and a ripple in the water. She turned something on, and I need to breathe. I have seconds.

I shove the muzzle of my gun into a joint in the pipe at the top of the generator and pull the trigger, covering my ears as well as I can with my upper arms.

Nothing.

I know my mistake: this isn't real. Someone building a fallout shelter might cut corners. Not the Gamemakers, though. They wouldn't risk something going wrong with this reactor and killing us all, ruining their plans.

Too late. I hear the clinks and clangs of the control rods being raised. The water gets hotter. I'm going to be cooked alive. By Amaris, of all people. There's something poetic about that, I guess; me dying at the hands of someone I never, ever expected to be seriously challenged by. It would be a learning experience, except I'll be dead.

I will not panic. I won't.

Silence. The temperature levels off.

The isolation valves. Someone closed them, either Amaris by accident or the Gamemakers on purpose. Now my little stretch of pipe is cut off from the reactor, but I still have two major problems: those valves are going to break soon, and I still can't breathe.

I keep firing, emptying my pistol into the joint of the pipe and trying to ignore the godawful, metallic screeching noises from behind me. It's killing me, not knowing what will happen. I'm just not familiar with the forces at play here. How hot does this water get, and how high does it drive the pressure? What's the pipe made of? What's the muzzle velocity of this pistol underwater? I don't know.

I fire what has to be one of my last few bullets and the pipe material fails catastrophically, the entire seam ripping open. Hallelujah.

I wriggle through, cutting my arm on the jagged edge, and flop onto the ground like a landed fish. No time to catch my breath, though. I scramble to my feet and sprint for the door—a lone, squat metal thing in the concrete room, empty except for the generator suspended above me—and have one foot outside when the entire thing explodes. I'm thrown into the hallway in a rush of boiling-hot, almost certainly radioactive steam.

I don't stop to see how badly I'm burned. I keep running.

Someone's going to pay for this, though. And by 'someone', I mean 'Ariel'. Because I got what I came for.

**Note: I sincerely doubt what Luther did would work irl, even if normal reactors were structured like that, which they're not. Probably just don't jump into nuclear reactors.**

**The part about the control room being surprisingly analog is a real thing, though. Although currently there's a push to digitize nuclear power plants. I think this is a bad idea. But what do I know…**


	60. Butcher

**Sorry for doing a bunch of one POV and none of others, but the timeline gets pretty tight here and I'd rather put the metaphorical camera wherever shit is going down than make up filler just to keep things even.**

**It's time for the moment we've all been waiting for, except, like, the opposite of that. This is where it gets real. Like, really really real. So, warnings: actual straight-up torture, in a Luther-y kind of way, i.e. with varying levels of sliminess throughout the whole thing.**

**Uh, formal apology to any remaining male readers. It was not my design to abuse the male characters specifically quite this much, I promise. Well, okay, it sort of was, but for thematic reasons.**

**Also the nuclear science stuff in this chapter is on the made-up side. Not a ton of data out there on this. Which is nice.**

**Viss Bardier, District Three, 17**

I doubt it was part of Luther's plan, but she threw the cards in the air and the way they fell happened to be perfect to short-circuit Luka's brain. He's pacing in circles, changing his mind every ten seconds. First he wants me to go after the Fives, but no, then I'll be in danger, but no, we can't just abandon Ariel to her, but what if he came with me?, no, that would mean leaving Kaya alone, we should stay with her, but we _can't _do that because then we're condemning Ariel, _he _could just go after Ariel but he knows I won't let him…

He's been at it for a good few minutes now. He's not getting anywhere. I reach out and catch his collar as he bounces past.

"We're going after Luther," I say.

"We can't leave Kaya."

"Kaya's dying."

I don't know that for a fact, but I have my suspicions. Her breathing is slow and ragged and her ribs are visibly broken. There are huge bruises on her stomach. Internal bleeding. I don't know how long she'll keep breathing, but I doubt she'll wake up.

He bites his lip. "I know. That's why we can't leave her."

I don't suggest a mercy kill. He'd never forgive me. "We're not helping her. We might be able to save Ariel," I argue, even though I need him dead anyway. "If we don't kill Luther while she's distracted with him…"

"Maybe someone else will get her?" he says hopefully.

"Look, I don't know if you've noticed this, but she goes after guys. Kaya bailed on her and she still made _you_ drug Ariel, even though you never did anything to piss her off."

"So?"

"So, if Ariel dies, you'll be the only one left alive, and guess who she'll come hunting for?"

Luka blinks. "Oh."

"Yeah. So either we kill her now, or you're next when she's through with him." I'm not sure if that's true at all, but I don't care.

"I… okay, well, that's fucking scary, but I'm still not leaving Kaya here," he mumbles. "If she comes after me, I'll… I'll deal with it."

"What, like Ariel dealt with it?" I snap. It takes all my self-control not to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. "Kaya is as good as dead. She doesn't even know we're here."

"I think she does–"

I almost smack him, but I stop myself. "Luka, I don't give a _fuck. _She has to die. Ariel has to die. Do you understand that?"

"I do get a say in this, you know," he says quietly.

"… What?"

"I don't want to die. But winning isn't my first priority, all right? I have to…"

"What, do the right thing?"

"Yeah, actually."

I take deep, patience-fortifying breath. "Then come be a fucking hero with me and save Ariel's sorry ass."

"No. We have to split up. Someone has to stay with Kaya"

"What if you get killed? There are two more Careers out there. After I saved your life I-don't-even-know-how-many times–"

"And I appreciate it. Really. Thank you. But I never asked you to do that, and it's still mine, not yours."

I know he's right, but that only makes it sting more. "Fine."

"Please don't be mad."

"I can't believe you."

"Viss…"

So I've traded violence for manipulation now. Way to go, me. But I'm scared, and I can't help getting mean. If I have to hurt him to keep him with me, so be it.

_I can't help it. _I use that excuse too much and I know it. I could just shut my mouth and let him be, but I don't want to.

"I'm sorry," Luka says softly. "And I-I know if you go we might not… find each other again. I understand if you don't want to fight her–"

"I'm not missing this chance to take her out. Not after seeing what she did to him. So you go ahead and follow whatever goddamn moral code you feel bound to, and I'll go stop you from getting tortured to death._"_

He flinches. "Viss, please."

"Please what? I'm doing exactly what you wanted me to do," I hiss, shoving Kaya's knife in my belt and checking her backpack for ammo. None. Fuck.

"You'll save Ariel if you find him?"

"I'll put him out of his misery. Quick and painless as I can. I'm sure he'll appreciate your concern."

Luka grits his teeth and hits the wall, the first sign of anything like temper I've seen from him. "Goddammit, Viss, I'm sorry, okay? I'm not trying to tell you what to do. But if you're leaving, please don't leave angry. Please? If I never see you again…"

I can't think too hard about what he's saying, because there's a good chance he's right. No more Luka for me. This is it. If we don't make up before I go, it'll haunt him forever.

Good.

I take a step toward the door.

Luka grabs my shoulder. "Viss–"

I whirl. He flinches. I grab the front of his coat and kiss him, hard, slamming his back against the wall.

And then I leave, walking into the darkness without looking back. I know I'll never see him again. But he will damn well remember me.

**Amaris da Costa, District Four, 17**

I round a corner and find what has to be the most useless sponsor gift ever: a bouquet of flowers. There's a note attached. I unfold the paper, scowling.

_Thanks for trying._

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

I gave the Capitol yet another chance to stop me, leaving Ariel alone for a solid two hours while I got my supplies. They could easily have killed him or freed him. They didn't, just like I expected. I come back to him still blindfolded and bound hand and foot, shivering in the middle of the huge, freezing cold room. _I'm _happy it's cold, at least. That steam burned the hell out of my legs. I can't decide who to go for after I'm through with Ariel: Amaris or Kaya? Or Luka, just for fun? He might be too easy. At least Ariel put up a fight.

I keep my footsteps silent as I walk over. I can't tell if he knows I'm here or not. He's perfectly still, aside from the shivering, but he's been struggling hard against the cuffs, if the sluggish stream of blood dripping from his wrists to the floor is anything to go by. Poor thing.

Someone burned him badly with what I assume was a soldering iron, I note, mostly on the pale insides of his forearms. Presumably that's what… _inspired_ him to use one on me. Cute. We match.

I give the operating table a soft, experimental tap, the sound just barely audible.

He freaks out. I smirk as he gasps and starts thrashing against the cuffs, only calming down when he's out of breath and the mostly-dried trickle of blood has become a steady drip-drip-drip. It's a good few minutes before his breathing settles down again. I think he's convinced himself he imagined the sound, or that it was just a drop of water from the ceiling or something. Poor deluded thing.

I tap the table again.

He sucks in a breath. "Luther?"

I don't reply.

"Come on, just tell me if you're there or not. Do you really have to fuck with me like this?"

I pull the heavy box from my pocket and plunk it down on the tray of surgical instruments.

"Okay, I definitely heard that. What are you doing?"

I smile and pluck a vial of phosphorous-33 from the box.

"_Say _something," he pleads, squirming like he's imagining a blade poised over every inch of exposed skin in turn.

"Keep talking."

"What-?"

I dump the stuff into his mouth, then some water, then clap a hand over it, holding his nose for good measure. I let go after a good bit more thrashing. He coughs and chokes, probably inhaling a good bit of it and swallowing the rest. Deja vu, I hope.

"Phosphorous-33," I explain cheerfully. "Beta emitter, according to the label. Feel anything yet?"

"… What?"

"Beta burns. You're going to have beta burns in your throat, lungs, stomach, all that. I'm not sure exactly how long it'll take to kick in, so let me know."

There's a moment of silence while he processes that. "… Oh, my god," he squeaks.

I resist the urge to make some kind of crack along the lines of _I am your god now. _Even I know that's cheesy, tempting though it may be.

"When are you going to kill me?"

"You know? I'm not sure," I say thoughtfully. "Not any time soon, in any case, so don't get your hopes up. Certainly not until you ask _very _nicely."

"You fucking lunatic," he rasps, coughing and spitting phosphorous onto the floor.

"Look, I seem to recall my exact words being 'I'm going to make you grovel on the floor, begging for death,'" I say matter-of-factly. "And I'm a woman of my word, except when I'm not."

"Holy shit," he says to himself. He sounds more resigned than scared at this point. That'll have to change.

"Now, shut up."

"Can I at least have some water before you start violating my human rights more than you already are?"

"If you speak to me one more time, I'm going to start cutting things off."

He opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it when I tap my knife against his stomach idly.

Clearly his situation hasn't really sunk in yet if he's this coherent, or he's riding some kind of dissociated second wind. I'm sure the beta burns could make the point nicely, but I don't want to wait that long. I want screaming and I want it now.

I scowl and jab my fingers into one of the oh-so-familiar pressure points along his ribs. He yells. Much better. I do it a few more times.

It does the trick nicely. More than just the pain; I seem to have caused a bit of emotional distress. Traumatic flashbacks, maybe? Did I give him PTSD on the train? I sure hope so.

I yank the blindfold off. Sure enough, he's crying. Good. And if I remember correctly…

I grab his neck and he immediately starts screaming at me, just like last time. He spits every curse in the book and a few that are new to me, squeezing his eyes shut, trying and failing to pull away. Guess I'm not the first one to leave a solid mental scar on him. Maybe I'll make him tell me that story, just for fun.

"_–__The fuck away from me, you evil fucking bitch–" _

It's amazing. I'm not even putting much pressure on his throat, just resting my hand on it, but he gets more and more worked up by the second. First he yells at me, then he starts gagging like he can't breathe even though he definitely can, and finally he collapses into sobs.

"Come on, don't the burns hurt _yet?" _I complain.

No response. I roll my eyes and balance the tip of my knife in the hollow of his neck, gradually pushing harder and harder.

"No rush," I shrug as his skin breaks and blood pools.

"… Yes," he gasps.

"Really? Where?"

"I-I don't… fucking everywhere, I… _Stop!" _he cries.

"If you insist," I say, withdrawing the knife. "I thought you wanted to die fast, though?"

"Y-you would've…? But… no, I thought you…"

I smirk to myself and return the knife to my belt. He's finally getting disoriented. Lovely.

I lean down so I'm right in his face, our noses practically touching. "Guess what?"

No response, aside from ragged breathing.

"Answer me before I take one of these machines apart and build a cattle prod from the pieces."

"… Y-You said not to talk," he whispers.

"Didn't stop you the last eight times."

"I…"

"Forget it. Let's try again. Guess what?"

"W-What?"

"I've got a bunch of plutonium, too. And you know what I'm going to do with it? I'm going to set something up so I can leave and it'll hit critical mass, right here on this tray next to you," I say cheerfully, pointing at the little folding table covered in scalpels and cauterizers. Hmm. Scalpels and cauterizers. Note to self. "And the great thing is, I don't even have to give you the speech about what's going to happen to you over the next, oh, week or so," I go on. "You already know how that goes, don't you? I bet you've seen it happen."

"Luther…"

"Hmm?"

He cowers as I run a hand over his hair. "Why can't you just fucking stab me? I-I didn't… I never wanted to fight you, okay?" he says hoarsely. "You win. I give up. Just kill me, alright?"

I tilt my head and draw my knife again, pressing the blade under his jaw and pulling it back just as quickly when he arches his neck up suddenly, trying to slit his own throat on it but only succeeding in making a hairline cut. "Say please."

He doesn't even hesitate. "Please."

Begging for death: check. Still not nearly enough groveling.

"Well, that was lovely. But no."

His expression goes from shock to rage to despair within a second. It's beautiful.

"Starting to get it?" I ask, picking up the cauterizer and regarding it thoughtfully. "I'm going to hurt you as much as I possibly can. That's how this is going to go. The end. Non-negotiable. Clear?"

"… Well, fuck you, then."

I burn his hand idly. He screams.

And that's how the next few hours go. I do exactly what I said I would do with the plutonium, ignoring his increasingly desperate pleas as he realizes how serious I am about it, rigging a firing mechanism and waiting around outside the door until there's a blue flash from inside. I come back in to find him lying still and defeated, his eyes closed, breathing so slowly I wonder for a minute if I've done something wrong and he's dying here and now.

But no, he's not dead. Just hopeless. I don't blame him. Starting now, he's a dead man walking, or at least he would be if I let him walk. His heart is beating, but his fate is sealed. His organs will die one by one, starting with the lining of his small intestine, destroying his ability to absorb food or water. He'll eventually die of dehydration if I don't kill him first, which I probably will.

The burn appears over the next few hours, staining his arm and back thanks to him curling up to protect his face like I knew he would. I don't have to do anything; he's already in more pain than he can handle. The phosphorous must be kicking in too. I can tell just by watching that every breath is excruciating.

He asks me to end it every now and then, accepts that the answer is no, and then gets desperate enough to ask again. Or maybe he just keeps forgetting that he's already asked. Soon it's apparent that he has no idea what's going on. Sometimes he seems to know where he is, but sometimes he mumbles something like he's in the lab back in District Five, saying there was a criticality accident, then rambling about Boltzmann distributions and complex gains. He talks to Amelia and cries for his parents. It's pathetic.

Does Tactics use plutonium? They really ought to. I guess the time bomb aspect of it is a drawback—you've only got a few days to retrieve your information—but they could be an awfully productive few days. It makes the victim easy to deal with, too. I remember just in time that Ariel's going to throw up any second and that he'll die if it happens while he's tied down on his back, but letting him go isn't a problem; he doesn't even try to fight me. He just curls up in a ball and sobs like I've broken his poor, twisted little heart.

I stand over him for a bit, tapping his burned arm idly and wondering what to do next. I feel like a butcher standing over a choice cut of meat, deliberating over where best to make the next slash. Could I induce Stockholm syndrome, I wonder? That would be funny. But no, I don't feel like being nice to him, and anyway that would take too long. Ariel has days to live and his lucidity is crumbling before my eyes. He barely moves except to wriggle around looking for a cool spot to press his back against. I can get a nice wail just by dragging my nails across his burns.

He was right about one thing: I win.


	61. Kill Number Seven

**Amaris da Costa, District Four, 17**

_Why are you sitting down?_

I'm just–

_Get up._

Fine, fine, okay. Jeez,

_You don't have to listen to her, Amaris, she's–_

Fuck off, Jaiven.

_Yes, fuck off, Jaiven._

Don't tell him to fuck off, Mom.

_Don't tell me what to do, Amaris. Apologize immediately._

… Sorry, Mom.

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

I'm going to lose my goddamn mind.

I shouldn't have let Viss go, not that anyone really 'lets' Viss do anything. Now she's alone, and I'm scared for her, and _I'm _alone, sort of, and I'm just scared in general. The Arena shift can't be good. Did they separate us on purpose? To keep me from going after her, or to keep her from coming back for me?

_Would _she come back for me?

I don't understand her. I never did and it looks like I never will. Does she hate me now? She kissed me, I guess, but I think that was meant to hurt me. In a way.

I crouch on the desk gargoyle-style, my chin in my hands, staring at the wall. I'm nervous. More so than usual. Probably because Viss has been watching my back this whole damn time, making the calls and stopping me from doing anything stupid, but suddenly the only thing between me and death is… me. Otherwise known as five feet, three and three-quarters inches of skinny goddamn uselessness.

I can practically see the look on Dad's face as soon as the thought crosses my mind. I can't blame him for overreacting to stuff like that. Not after Mom. But it's hard sometimes, having to be happy all the time, since he gets worried if I stop bouncing off the walls for five seconds. I can't tell him about that weird feeling I have sometimes where it's like I'm not real. I'm not actually meant to exist. I'm not enough.

Most of the time the feeling stays pretty quiet. If I'm around other people, I can lean on them, because I know _they _exist and if they're paying attention to me then I must exist too. But then there are times like this, where I have to rely entirely on my own perception, which means I can't take anything for granted. It's what drove me to Viss's room that night on the train in the first place. Kaya's great, but she's not the best company right now.

I jump off the desk to check on her. Nothing much has changed. Her eyes flutter, but never open all the way. Her breathing is labored. I know by looking that her ribs are badly broken. If I'd had to guess, I'd say at least one of her lungs is collapsed, but neither is punctured or she'd be coughing blood. I _think _that's what Mrs. Marquist said.

But she knows I'm there. If I put my hand in hers, she squeezes it weakly. I can't leave.

I plop down in the office chair and spin in aimless circles. I feel like I should be _doing _something for Kaya, other than giving her water, but I don't know what. Cracked ribs I can deal with, but ribs broken so badly they're out of place are beyond me. And internal bleeding? What am I supposed to do, cut her open? Not a chance. So I guess I'll just sit around being absolutely no use to anyone.

Wait. The first aid kit in my backpack. I assumed there was nothing I could do, but maybe…

I pull it out and rip the plastic off to open it. Sure enough, painkillers. Great. Only took me, what, six hours to think of that?

I grab a bottle of water and crouch down next to her. "Hey, Kaya?"

She makes a dazed _hmm? _noise.

"I found some painkillers. Uh, sorry it took me so long, I just… you don't care, forget it. Think you can swallow them if I give you water with them?"

Another vague noise, but with an affirmative tone to it, and something that looks like a nod. I figure it's the best I'm going to get and give her the pills. She doesn't choke on them, so I guess she heard me.

I try to get up. She doesn't let go of my hand.

"Oh. Sorry," I say, sitting down next to her.

Wait. Does this mean she's dying? Her wanting me to stay close? The thought throws me into a tailspin, for the least noble reasons possible. If she dies, I'm really, truly alone. And then what do I do? I won't have any reason to stay here. Look for Viss, I guess, even though I just don't think they'll let me find her. But I have to try. Go out there all alone. And probably get butchered.

"Hey," Kaya whispers after twenty minutes or so, making me jump.

"Ah! Oh. Hey. Since when are you that conscious?"

"For a while. Just hurt to talk."

I can tell from her face that it still does hurt.

"You probably shouldn't," I point out. "If it hurt before the painkillers, it's still bad for you, even if you can't feel it."

"Don't think it matters. Viss…?"

I bite my lip. "Gone after Ariel."

"Good, I guess," she breathes, closing her eyes again. "Ow."

"I can get more–"

"It's fine."

_Fine? It's not fine! It's really not!_

"Want anything?" I say instead. "Water, or…?"

"Just keep talking."

"Oh. I… okay, um. Hmm. Let me see. Did I ever tell you the water tower story?"

"Please do."

So I do. I can't quite put my usual energy into it, but I don't think that matters; it's not like she wants to hear it because she actually cares. I'm just a distraction.

I can't shake that feeling of… unworthiness? Like someone else should be here for her, not me. Someone better. I feel small and clumsy and it's like she's being patient with me, humoring me, even though she shouldn't have to be making allowances for me and protecting my feelings because _she's fucking dying._

"S-So then the d-dog…"

"Forget the dog," she whispers. "Just… stay here."

"Yeah. C-Course I'm staying."

I can feel everyone who cares about her scrutinizing me, family and friends, willing me to do this right. Do what they would do. But I don't _know _what to do. I was sixteen days old when Mom died, and never knew any grandparents. For all the insanity of District Three, somehow everyone I was close to was always okay. A few close calls, but no one died. So I'm not ready for this.

Why do I have to _care _so much? Only that's not what's bothering me deep down. It's just… am I really the only one?

The door opens. It's such a normal thing that for a second it doesn't occur to me to be worried. Then Amaris da Costa walks in, a knife in her hand, a crazy grin on her face, and I start to worry a lot.

**The Capitol**

"_Shit!_" Tibbi yelled. "Oh, god _damn _it!"

"Ooh," Cleo said with a wince as Amaris's elbow slammed into Luka's face, knocking him to the ground.

Deyna threw a bottle of Jaegermeister at the holographic map. "Weren't any of you _paying attention?" _he screeched. "You knew I was trying to track Viss and keep an eye on that goddamn horrorshow with the Fives! Did _no _one think to watch the rest of the tributes? What part of 'no one dies without my permission' do you people not understand?"

There was a collective shuffling of feet and lowering of eyes.

"Monsters?" Tibbi suggested as Luka slashed at Amaris. He landed a solid hit, but it was obvious from his face that his old injuries were hurting him. When he hit the ground again with his coat pulled to the side, the back of his shirt was soaked with blood, like the stitches had torn open yet again.

"No release points close enough," Cleo sighed. "He won't last that long. And there's no guarantee she wouldn't prioritize killing him and Kaya over defending herself, and then we lose all three of them."

Tibbi took a deep breath and laced her fingers together, resting her chin on them. "There has to be something. Scramble the Arena? Anything? We don't have _any _kind of failsafe? Knockout gas?"

Another Gamemaker gave her a strange look. "We can't just knock tributes out. Why is it such a crisis, anyway? So what if it wasn't what you planned? It's still a good fight, see?" he said cheerfully, pointing as Luka's head slammed into the desk and he fell to the ground in a heap.

"Yeah," Tibbi said weakly. "Great."

**Kaya Redfell, District Seven, 18**

It hurts too much to lift my head and see what's going on. I don't need to see it, though; I can hear it. Luka's losing. Really, he lost the moment she walked in; she's bigger than him, probably stronger, definitely better trained, and positively a thousand times more vicious. I think she's just throwing him around for kicks at this point.

My heart twists a little at every sound. I wanted to win. But if I can't, I think I wanted Luka to. He's a good person. Brave, too, as it turns out; I can smell blood from here, but he's still fighting. He always manages to intercept Amaris when she gets near me.

"You're fucking tiny, you know that?" she cackles. There's a sound like her throwing him across the room, I guess to prove her point.

"Fuck you," Luka grumbles.

Amaris yelps. For a second I have hope, but Luka's the next one to cry out in pain.

"I know, Mom," Amaris's voice says quietly. "I– Yeah, I said I _know."_

What? Is she crazy now? That would explain a lot, but it doesn't bode well. I almost wish she had a gun; then at least it would be over faster for both of us.

Wait. A gun.

_I _have a gun. On my belt, hidden by my coat. But I can't even lift my arm.

"Luka," I say, but I can't make my voice louder than a whisper, and anyway Luka is a little busy being slammed into the wall above my head and repeatedly punched in the gut.

But then Amaris makes what I hope will prove to be a serious mistake: presumably just to be a bitch, she throws Luka at me. He manages to catch himself, bless him, landing on his knees next to me with his elbow against the wall to avoid falling on me, but I've only got a moment to catch his attention before he tries to attack her again or she rams a knife into his back.

"Luka," I hiss. "Gun on my belt."

His eyes widen and he grabs for it, just as Amaris wraps an arm around his neck. She drags him off me and promptly kicks him to the ground again. She's barely used her knife, but now she raises it, stalking forward and cornering him.

But the gun is gone from my belt. Luka has the gun. Now, the question is if he can use it.

"Amaris, don't," he pleads, huddling in the corner, blood dripping from a cut in his face where it hit the desk. One of his hands is hidden under his coat.

She keeps coming. "Nope. You're gonna be kill number seven, and she'll make eight. That's a third of the Arena. Wow, I'm _awesome."_

"Stop, I'm telling you, please just–"

Amaris grabs him by the collar of his coat and pulls her knife back to ram it into his gut. I want to scream at him. _Shoot her! Now! Bad time to be a pacifist!_

But time slows and the gunshot isn't coming, and bit by bit it sinks in that he can't do it, her arm is starting to move, the blade must be in his stomach by now–

_Bang._

_Bangbangbang._

Amaris falls down with at least one bullet wound over her heart. Luka stands there in the corner, leaning against the wall for support. He's ashen-faced, the gun slipping from his grip, his other hand over his stomach. Blood drips between his fingers.

"Did she stab you?" I whisper.

"Only a little," he says dazedly, then collapses.

**Mmm whatcha saaay…**


	62. Play By The Rules

**This isn't a new chapter, but what's now Chapter 56 is new! Whoopsie. If you were wondering when the hell Des and Amelia teamed up, that was it, lol.**

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

They gave her a drug to keep me lucid.

_Lucid _is probably a generous word for what I am. But I ought to be physically incapable of conscious thought; that much hard radiation from that close should've knocked me far, far past the point of awareness within hours. It's one of the things that makes the risk of radiation poisoning bearable for those of us who face the chance of it every day: if we get hit, we'll be taken to a hospital. Our physical pain will be managed chemically. We won't have to go through the psychological pain of a slow death, festering in our guts and creeping out from there, because our consciousness will already be long gone.

Or at least it should be. But Luther gave me a shot of something a while ago—it's worse than the burns, her touching me—and I can only assume that it's why _I'm still fucking here._

I'm finally getting it through my head that, from Luther and from the Capitol, there will be no mercy. None. I'm dying from the inside out and they're going to watch me quiver like an insect on a pin. It must make their day when I beg, but the idea of worrying about my ego is laughable. I would do anything for anyone if they could take the pain away.

I imagine the Ariel of a few weeks ago seeing me now. The shock and revulsion on his perfect face when he sees my burned, bloody, tear-streaked one. His utter contempt for me. Maybe he would deserve this. Maybe I deserve this.

Everyone in District Five must be trying to console my parents right now. They must hate it. They loathe attracting attention.

Of all people, I find myself wanting Viss. Because Luka and Amelia and Desdemona would hesitate, Amaris would play with me, and I don't know what Kaya and Fenris would do. But Viss, she would take one look at me and put a bullet in my head. She doesn't give a fuck about me, but that's okay. I'm human to her. Enough to deserve deliverance from this. That's more than enough right now.

Now and then Luther gets some new idea for how to hurt me. The pain barely bothers me. I just want her to stop touching me. Luther is the personification of everything I hate and fear, just like I think she wants to be. Her hand on me is every unwanted touch in my life. Every clumsy, resentful attempt at reconciliation from my parents when they know they've gone too far and that I'm not being "angsty" or "melodramatic" when I get angry. Every old lech in a club or a classroom. My stylist. Jolltree. Every Capitol citizen who just took the goddamned liberty, because I'm just a tribute, right? Why should I get a say?

Stop. Touching. Me.

But I don't get a say. Not anymore.

Luther comes up with a new game: dropping a scalpel near me, then kicking me away like a wayward pet when I reach for it. Of course I tell myself at first that I won't give her the thrill of watching me try and fail to kill myself. But that's during one of the low points of the pain. It's only a matter of time before it flares up again, a crushing, burning, twisting feeling in my gut getting worse and worse even though it doesn't seem possible that it can, and I _can't _take it, not for one more second; the idea of grabbing the blade and puncturing my own jugular and watching my blood pool on the floor as the pain fades away to cool blessed nothing is too tempting to resist.

But every time I crawl and claw my way within a foot of the blade, she stomps me to the ground or kicks it away. Soon it gets bad enough that I can't move at all, and I collapse on my face, crying from pain and anger and frustration and fear. The fear because she's pure evil. I never believed in devils or demons or malevolent spirits or anything like that, but Luther is making me wonder whether I'm in the claws of something inhuman. I'm furious that she can scare me like this, but the anger is dying away helplessly as the fear grows. The crazy thought crosses my mind that I can't get away even by dying. Maybe I'm not just unlucky. Maybe I'm _damned. _Maybe there really is no escape.

In which case any supernatural entity that can hear me is invited to fucking annihilate me. Please.

Something's different. Usually the pain rises and falls, and I have some control over it—it's worse when I move, and fades when I curl up so my muscles are slack—but this time it's not going away. I can't get enough air to scream. Luther stands over me, snickering at my sobbing, ragged attempts to breathe.

Something's seriously wrong. How long has it been since she poisoned me? Hours? A day? I know people usually last a few days at least, but that's healthy, grown adults with life support in a hospital, not my already-beaten, half-starved ass getting kicked around on a dirty floor by a sadistic psychopath.

So I think I might be dying. Right now.

Please let me be dying.

**Viss Bardier, District Three, 17**

I've barely rounded a corner when they rearrange the Arena again.

Walls shift. The floor drops a story under my feet, throwing me to the ground in a heap. I have no idea where I am, or where Luther is, or Luka. And they wouldn't do this without a reason. They're closing off my way back to him. They're going to hurt him and there's nothing I can do about it.

I try, of course. I walk for hours, and hours, and hours. Now and then my imagination gets away from me and I imagine Luther cornering Luka somewhere, prowling toward him with a knife and a smile, and I start running, flying through identical hallway after hallway. This place is a goddamn labyrinth.

Plus there's Ariel. The last thing I want is to give a damn about _two _people, but I'd be lying to myself if I said the thought of him being hurt doesn't bother me at all. He's an ass, but no one deserves that. I wish I hadn't lashed out at him like that.

I stop to catch my breath, sinking to the floor in a crouch. I only have one bottle of water. I'm not worried about it. Something tells me that everything will be over soon. Luther will slip up and either kill Ariel or maim him enough that no one in the Capitol wants to fuck him anymore, at which point they'll both become useless and be summarily disposed of. I'm not interesting enough without Luka, so they'll get rid of me, too. Kaya will die. Luka's life will hang in the balance of the Gamemakers' whim: him, Amelia, Desdemona, or Amaris? Who's the Capitol in the mood for? They like variety. The Victor last year was male, but otherwise Luka's opposite in every way; does it matter to them that they're different, or will Luka be culled for it anyway? I'm reminded of one of the bratty new kids at the center who hasn't figured out how things work yet: _but we had potatoes yesterday! I don't want potatoes again!_

I'm disgusted. With Luther, with the Capitol, with everything and everyone, myself included. The rebels, if they're out there, are kidding themselves. People are scum, across the board, the end. There's nothing worth rebelling for. Not even Luka.

Not even Luka?

I guess I don't know, and all at once I don't care anymore, either. I'm fucking tired, right down to my soul. Maybe Luka will win because of me. He'll go back to his father and live the rest of his life with guilt and nightmares, on the Capitol's short leash, maybe worse if he's unlucky enough to grow up handsome. Why did I ever think I could save his happiness and innocence and idealism? The fact that he's been sheltered for this long just means he has farther to fall when he figures it all out. He'll be a junkie by the time he's twenty.

An awful, agonized scream echoes down the hallway. Ariel.

I start running again. There's another muted cry, then terrified sobbing, which is worse somehow. Luther's not just physically hurting him; she's twisting his psyche to bloody splinters. Lobotomizing him the long way. I've learned that people run on a scale from 'rational, thinking human' to 'terrorized animal', and I can hear in his voice that he's spiraling toward the far end of the spectrum.

Another scream. I've heard a lot of them, but this one's the worst.

She will _never _touch Luka.

I run toward the sound, keeping my footsteps quiet enough to hide beneath his voice. Isolating the direction it's coming from is difficult, but I think I'm getting closer. I keep to the shadows.

I round a corner and find myself looking down a short hallway at a door marked _Operating Theater Three._ Exactly Luther's style. I draw my knife and charge up the hall.

The Arena shifts again.

"You fucking _bastards," _I hiss, picking myself up off the ground. Sure enough, the door is gone. Now I'm truly angry. Because I've got every reason to be the most cynical motherfucker on this garbage heap of a planet, but even I know damn well that this is wrong. Sure, people kill and rape and lie and steal all the fucking time. Everyone is awful, but there are some things that are really just beyond the pale, and letting a teenager be hurt like that _just for entertainment_ is one of them.

If they won't play by the rules, neither will I.

I stomp to the end of the hallway where the doors used to be. Everything's the same as it was before until one doorway, where the rooms lining the hall shift from medical storage to offices. That's the joint. Which means it's the weak spot.

I find the seam between two sheets of metal and jab my knife into it. It's a thin seam, but it's a sharp knife. I lever the metal off, revealing a narrow area full of wires and electronics between the wall and another slab of metal. Here and there are pumps and supports clamped to the wall. The mechanisms for scrambling the Arena, I guess.

The problem is that there's no floor. My flashlight beam reveals layer after layer of crisscrossing pipes and wires until it fades into darkness. If I fall down there, even the Capitol will have a hard time retrieving my body.

Ariel screams again. This time it comes from the gap behind the wall, echoing from God knows how far away.

I put the little flashlight between my teeth and step into the darkness.

**The Capitol**

Deyna Balthazar slammed his forehead against his desk.

"Er... is there a problem?" Tibbi asked hesitantly.

Deyna pointed at the nearest screen wordlessly without lifting his head. Tibbi looked up just in time to see the Three girl vanish into the machine space.

"Oh," Tibbi said weakly. "Well, fuck."

"Get me a technician!" Deyna roared at the room in general. "I want every camera with a view into the machine space on this monitor. Someone fix the hologram map to include it. And if we lose her tracker signal… I don't actually know what will happen, but rest assured you will all be very sorry."

Tibbi bit her lip and exchanged glances with Cleo.

"Tibbi," Deyna said quietly.

"Sir?"

"I understand that you've taken over most of the responsibility for the… storyline here."

"I supposed that's true, sir."

"I imagine this throws a bit of a wrench in things."

"It does, sir."

"Do you prefer that I do my best to keep her in the game? Or shall I… remove the unknown variable, given that it risks compromising the others?"

Tibbi sucked in a breath. "I'll get back to you on that, sir."

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

"Amelia?"

"Hmm?"

"I think I saw something behind us."

She says it in the tone of a scared kid worried there's a monster under her bed, but I know better than to not take her seriously. No one who makes it to the final eight of the Hunger Games is someone to be trifled with.

We stand there for a long moment, squinting into the darkness up the hallway.

"I don't see anything," I finally say.

"I don't either, anymore. But I really think I did."

"Hmm. Well… Keep an eye out, I guess," I decide.

We keep walking. But now she's put the idea in my head, and I'm nervous. Could the monsters be back? Amaris? Is Ariel dead already and Luther is on our trail? Worse still, is he alive but captured, and she thinks I'll make a nice addition to her carnival of crazy? I've been enough people's entertainment already, thanks; I'm a bit done being pointed and laughed at. I _dare _her to come after me.

Des turns around and starts walking backwards.

"Did you see it again?" I ask.

"No, but… I dunno. I'm just nervous."

I know what she means. I have the strangest feeling that we're being stalked by something, but what am I supposed to do? I can't see anything. If it tries to kill us, I'll happily try to kill it right back, but it needs to make the first move. Whatever it is.

Having Des around is a curse and a blessing. I like people, more or less, and Des is one of the more likable people I've met. But it's a nasty reminder that sixteen kids just like her have already died, mockingjay or no mockingjay. I really do hope that no one else has to die—I'm going to have to do a serious reevaluation of my perception of, well, everything if I'm still alive in a few days—but the more time passes, the more likely it becomes that at least one more tribute is going to lose their life. It's just way, way too quiet.

"Run!" Des screams.

I turn, reaching for my sword. "What-?"

"Don't fight, _run!" _she yells again, tugging on my arm. "It's the Thing!"

I get one look at whatever's behind me and take off at a dead sprint, dragging Des after me. Sometimes I think I'm gaining ground, but then I look down to see shadowy tendrils nipping at my heels. I throw myself down a flight of stairs and around corner after corner. I've never sprinted this far in my life, but I'm not stopping now, even though I'm practically carrying Des.

I fly down a dark tunnel and into an open area full of junk. The realization about the second part comes a moment too late, and I trip over something metal and fall flat on my face.

I roll onto my back, drawing my sword and wondering how in the living hell I'm supposed to fight something like the thing chasing us. Do they mean for me to be able to? Are they just executing me?

It's gone.

Which means it didn't want to kill us. It wanted to bring us here. Something's about to happen.

I stand up warily, offering Des a hand and pulling her to her feet. Nothing attacks us. I take stock of our position and find that we're on a wide balcony circling the pit, I think on the second floor, close enough to see the black stuff at the bottom. There's a dull sheen on the top, like oil, shimmering as the it moves. Whatever it is is liquid, but thicker than water.

Nothing is moving in the pit but the little ripples. Nothing on the floor below us. I don't see anything on our balcony. But then I look up and the air leaves my lungs.

Across from us, two floors up, there's movement. A skinny, pale boy, too big to be Luka, not that I thought it would be. Ariel. Slumped on all fours, his head hanging like he's not strong enough to hold it up. I can see from here that his skin is streaked with blood.

"Oh," Des says quietly as my knuckles go white around the railing.

Right on cue, Luther appears from the shadows, tall and smug as ever. Ariel collapses on his side. She manhandles him to his knees, shoving him to the edge of the pit, close enough that a light kick to his back will send him tumbling in.

His head lolls as he slides in and out of consciousness, but I see enough of his expression to know he's terrified. He doesn't want to die that way.

Luther locks eyes with me and smiles.


	63. Mercy Kill

**The Capitol**

"Tibbi?"

Tibbi looked up to find Deyna Balthazar behind her desk. His face, always a ghostlike white, had a distinct tinge of grey.

"Is something wrong, sir?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, no, it's all fine. President Fife was just good enough to send along a small request. I'll be trusting you to deal with it."

"Okay," Tibbi said warily. "What does he want?"

Deyna handed over the note, handwritten on Fife's personal stationary.

Tibbi scanned it, then read it again to make sure she'd gotten it right the first time. "Oh," she said.

"Quite clear, I think."

"Oh, my. And we're… we're doing this? It's quite against procedure. And, er, the law. And most ethical frameworks developed since, hmm, I'd say at least the Neolithic–"

"It is, but it's the President's request, and I understand that there is some precedent. So yes, it would appear that we're doing this."

"Oh."

"Will you be able to take care of this for me? And promptly," Deyna said with a frown. "If I had to guess, you have minutes."

Tibbi gulped. "I… er. Oh, my. Yes, I'll… I'll figure something out immediately."

"Does this really come as a surprise?" Deyna asked, raising an eyebrow.

Tibbi considered that for a moment, then sighed. "I thought… the cost would be prohibitive. At this point. Given the current state of things."

"Oh, Tibbi," Deyna said with a rueful smile. "This is exactly why I'm letting you handle the _storyline, _you know. You're such an optimist."

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

I don't know if I'm conscious or dreaming or dead. Stimulants only go so far in the face of cell death on a massive scale. So suck on that, I guess, Capitol. You killed me so fucking hard even you can't stop it.

The pain is still there, but in a misty, distant sort of way, like it's on the other side of a waterfall. I can hide from it. I'm aware of things like the chemical-laced stuffiness of the air, the blackness of the pit, the cold metal against my knees, the echoes of machinery, but it's like none of it really applies to me.

This is what dying feels like. It really is like falling asleep. You fade out. Now and then you get little jolts where you realize it's happening, but you're just like… oh. Okay. This is okay. All the chaos and pain and fighting is out there, I see it, I know, but I'm safe, already halfway to somewhere dark and empty where none of it can reach me.

I don't like the emptiness. I keep looking for something new, somewhere to go, but there's nothing. It's not a transition. It's the end, in a terribly absolute way that I never realized until now. I don't want it.

But I'll take it. It's better than this. Especially if I'm going to fall.

I don't want to fall because I'm afraid it'll pull me back. Drag me out from behind the water. I know the shock will hurt, like bright light when I'm in a deep sleep, and then when I hit the bottom…

Please no more pain. Let me die before I fall.

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

Ariel dies like he lived: pathetically and at the will of the Capitol.

I read his file. I know about his parents, so smart the Capitol _made _them reproduce rather than letting those genes die with them one day. Nasty stuff. Did he know? I should've told him, but he wouldn't understand a word I'm saying now.

I'm so delighted to see Amelia watching from a few floors down, the timing too perfect to be a coincidence. They brought her here. They want a dramatic execution, grief-stricken witnesses and all, and I'm immensely looking forward to giving them one. Taunting Amelia, pushing him far enough to lose his balance and then pulling him back, all of that. Scare him enough that he'll be willing to throw himself in just to make it stop, but then hold him back, because he doesn't get to make that choice. I do.

That was the plan.

Then the Arena shakes and Ariel falls. Just like that.

I suppose it's picturesque, like a movie. That moment where both of us realize at once that the point of no return has been passed. I have a grip on his arm, but I'm not strong enough to hold his entire body weight. It's out of my control. I let him go.

I think he knows it, the bastard. There's a split second of eye contact and I swear I see defiance.

And then he's tumbling through the air as I lean after him, gripping the railing with one hand, the other curled into a fist, the warm, chemical-tainted wind from the bottom of the pit ruffling my hair. I'm so _mad. _It's like dropping the last bite of a popsicle.

But I get my satisfaction when he hits the bottom and starts to scream.

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

I don't want to see anyone else die in the pit. I know when his body falls that I should look away, cover my ears, anything to avoid what's about to happen—_again—_but I can't. The only other place to look is Amelia, and that's frightening. She has that expression people get when they know they should be sad, but the grief is buried deep underneath miles and miles of molten fury. Blank at a glance. But if Luther were in her grip right now, I wouldn't be even a little bit surprised to see Amelia snap her neck.

Ariel lands in the black stuff with a nasty, thick splash. Maybe he's dead already. I really, really hope he's dead already.

An awful cry echoes through the pit. No such luck. Why can't I look away? He's barely visible down there, but I think I see him reach toward Amelia like he thinks she can save him, just pluck him out of all of this from two floor up.

But of course she can't. And then he's gone.

Amelia turns and sprints back the way we came. I run after her, but I'm left in the dust.

I'm alone. I can't be alone. Not after seeing what she did to him, and knowing she's still out there. I feel like natural selection has cut the population of the Arena down to the unspeakably dangerous contenders, but left me alive through some kind of mistake. It's only a matter of time until one of them finds me.

And I can't get that image out of my head, him floundering in the acid, just like Castalia. I don't think I can play this game anymore. I really, really can't.

The floor shakes again. It feels different, not like the Arena-scrambling machinery.

What on Earth is going on? And how am I going to survive it?

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

There are so many waves of guilt and grief crashing over me from so many directions I can barely tell which is which.

There's Ariel, of course. I know he must've suffered unimaginably at her hands, his worst fear come true, and I couldn't save him. And he still reached for me in the end. I think in his head I was something much better than I really am. It was something I meant to bring up.

But Ariel isn't the only person dead. He's just the only one to get close to me and then die where I could see it. What about every other tribute? Jaiven? Ash? Ravy, the boy I helped kill? What about the people who cared about them? What about Des, who it occurs to me I _shot _at earlier, when she was running around with those two outer-District boys? And what about those boys, dead too now? Did Des have to see them die?

I made all kinds of excuses for the Hunger Games and my own participation in them. That's all over. I get it now, and I feel awful that it took something like this to make me truly understand. I thought I was a good, compassionate, empathetic person. I was giving myself far too much credit; no one like that would have lived eighteen years of their life and willingly shared a society with the Hunger Games, much less participated in them.

So maybe I'm not good or compassionate or empathetic. But I do know what I am: angry. Luther dies today. And if the rebels come, I'll help them tear down the Capitol; if not, I'll do it myself.

**Luther Constantine, District Five, 18**

Now, time to get ready for Amelia.

I'm not sure what I want with her, exactly. She seems… straightforward. No inflated ego to pop like Ariel, no shell to crack like Viss, no idealism to crush like Luka. Maybe I won't waste much time on her; the Threes seem like a lot more fun, especially if I could get both of them at once. How wild would Viss go if I hurt Luka in front of her? Or better yet, just outside her line of sight, where she could hear it but not see it?

Only one way to find out.

I straighten up as Ariel vanishes under the surface like something's grabbed him and dragged him under, turning to decide which tunnel to take.

Viss is right behind me.

I'm going to die.

I know before she even starts to swing. The edge of the balcony is an inch behind my heels. I have no room to dodge, and blocking the punch would mean absorbing the force of it, which would knock me in anyway.

But there is one thing I can do.

Viss's fist slams into my face and I step backwards to catch myself instinctively, but of course the ground isn't there. I'm not ready for the rush of panic and it almost distracts me too much to do what I want to do. Almost.

I never thought at length about dying. I don't particularly like the idea, and I always assumed that when it did happen, it would be on my own terms and I'd have plenty of time to think about it in advance. But now it's happening… right now. It's scarier than I thought.

I'm not quite dead yet, though. I didn't have my heart set on winning, really; I knew the Hunger Games were the most fun I'd have in my life. I want more time to think, but at least I have time to act. And the one thing I refuse to do is be beaten.

So as I fall, I reach for the bomb strapped to my thigh, grabbing a fistful of wires. This time I'm the one to catch her eye. There's not a trace of emotion. Not satisfaction or relief. Just cold awareness. She's a machine accomplishing a task, like I'm nothing to her. I don't appreciate that.

Fuck you, Viss Bardier.

I yank the wires out.

_Boom._

**Viss Bardier, District Three, 17**

The blast throws me across the balcony and into the wall. Something cracks. For a second everything goes black. Then the world fades in again, spiraling in from above, and a few thoughts present themselves in succession: the District Fives are dead. Finally. I'm dying. That leaves Luka with Amelia, Kaya, and Desdemona.

Kaya will die. The other two… Luka is stronger, faster, and more skilled than Desdemona, but if they were the final two, he would hand her a gun, turn his back, and wait for the shot. No, he wouldn't even make her do it; he'd do it himself, far away, where she wouldn't have to see. With tears in his eyes, whispering to his dad to forgive him, especially after what his mom did, but he knows he'll understand, please understand and keep going…

Fucking Luka. I think I love him.

If Amelia finds him, she'll kill him. Quickly, apologetically, respectfully, but that doesn't change the fact that his heart will stop and the thought kills me.

Amelia.

She's here.

Here with me, in the fallout of the dirty bomb. Being irradiated by the second. She doesn't know. The longer she stays here, the weaker she'll be.

She appears above me, her expression soft and gentle, although it's superimposed over a hard rage. Ariel, I realize. They were… something. Poor her. Poor _him._

But I'll hurt her to save Luka.

"Viss?" she says softly.

"Luther had some kind of grenade," I whisper.

Am I imagining that something on me is still burning? Is it just my clothes melted to my skin? If the Gamemakers somehow manage to bring Luka here, to see me like this, after I ran off to save him, guilting him straight to hell about my little 'sacrifice'… I will _haunt _their asses. But it'll be my fault.

"What do you want me to do?" Amelia asks.

It's a nice way to see if I want a mercy kill, I know. And honestly, I wouldn't care one way or the other. I barely feel any pain. There's something peacefully final about it. I can't fight anymore. I've done all I can.

Almost.

"Stay with me," I breathe.

***flees***

**If you would for some reason like to experience massive whiplash, go read Ariel's Reaping chapter again, lol.**


	64. Blackout

**Disclaimer: I don't know a goddamn thing about organic chemistry and am flagrantly making shit up.**

_"__President Fife will be onscreen to address you momentarily. Please remain in your homes. Do not believe any rumors you may hear; they are almost certainly false, and possibly an attempt by rebels to spread distrust of your government. Remember, the Peacekeepers are here to protect you. Peace is a team effort."_

xxx

"How many dead, sir?"

Fife's eyes flashed. "I don't see how that concerns you, Balthazar."

"I can't help feeling some responsibility for this tragedy, sir. By all accounts, the cause of the riot seems to have been my Games. Besides," Deyna added with a shrug and a toothy half-smile. "Morbid curiosity. I can't help it."

"You always were a morbid son of a bitch."

"I believe it's why you hired me, sir."

"… Thirty-three," Fife finally said.

"At the Peacekeepers' hands?"

"They had no choice but to open fire, I was told. The crowd was on the verge of attacking the mansion."

"We certainly can't have that," Deyna said placatingly. "You have plenty of Peacekeepers, I hope?"

"Absolutely not," Fife growled. "I've never had to station so many in the Capitol. And of course Eleven is acting up as always, Three is locked down as a precaution… even in District Five people are talking. District _Five, _Balthazar; do you have any idea-?"

"I do have some notion of the destructive capabilities of nuclear materials, sir. I certainly agree with your decision to err on the side of caution."

"My decision? I don't _get _a decision, Balthazar, there aren't enough Peacekeepers. There's nothing I can do. What part of that don't you understand?"

Deyna's eyes widened in obvious shock. "There are no additional Peacekeepers in District Five? After…" He waved his hands vaguely. "All that… business?"

"Where do you suggest I get them from? The reserves are all in Three, Eleven, and my own damn courtyard. Unless you're volunteering to give up every ship watching your Arena–"

"I don't want to see my Games ruined. But the Games lose their meaning if we lose control of District Five. I would rather let the rebels have my Arena than my head, if you don't mind me being so frank, sir."

Fife shook his head. "The rebels taking the Arena is unacceptable. It would be a massive symbolic victory."

Deyna took a deep breath, remembering what Tibbi Duster had asked him to say. "Then let's control the symbolism angle before they do. What if the _Gamemakers _defend the Arena? Our hovercraft is strong enough and can be crewed mostly with civilians. Have the media report Gamemakers on the front lines, defending our very way of life, as every citizen ought to be doing."

There was a long moment of silence while Fife considered it. "… I don't trust you, Balthazar," he finally said. "I like the idea, but I don't trust you."

Deyna shrugged. "I wish you would, but that is of course your prerogative, sir. Would you prefer it if I stayed in the Capitol and some other Gamemakers went?"

"I think I would prefer that very much."

Deyna bowed. "All right, then. I'll stay right here where you can keep an eye on me. Sir."

"Glad to hear it."

Deyna turned to leave.

"Wait," Fife said.

"Sir?"

"About my request? I was forced to make a few… unusual promises, in exchange for cooperation from some of my opposition, and I believe you said you'd have Tibbi look into it. Distasteful though it all may be, I would hate to go back on my word. Peace is a team effort, after all."

Deyna kept his face blank. "I think you asked us just in time, sir. I'm told everything went well. Tell your opposition they'll be able to, ahem, collect on your promise within a few days. I'm sure they'll understand it's difficult to give an exact time, but my people are doing their best. No expense spared."

"Excellent. Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, sir. Always happy to help."

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

It occurs to me that if Viss is alone, Luka is probably dead. That leaves Des and Kaya. I can win. If I kill the thirteen-year-old I told I'd protect, which is… a questionable premise.

But winning doesn't mean fame and fortune and good PR anymore. It means me walking out of this Arena alive to wreck whatever havoc I can. How? I don't know. But I'll figure something out.

Hours pass. Viss falls unconscious. Her burns are horrendous, but I think they're the kind that are so bad they destroy the nerve endings, so the person never feels them. I give her another few minutes, but even though she's breathing, I don't think she's waking up again.

I don't know how to feel about her more-or-less death. She didn't seem too bothered by it herself, which makes it easier to handle, but still. Everything about her, her story, her attitude, is quietly sad and… unrealized? Like she never quite knew who she was. And she could've been something formidable. I could see her in the military or something like that, where her stoicism would serve her well.

I wish I could've gotten to know her outside the Games. She seemed prickly, to say the least, but I think maybe I could've gotten through to her. Getting through to people is practically my superpower. Because I've felt almost everything, maybe; I've been loved and hated, I grew up comfortably but endured the trial by fire of Career training, I've seen people at their most honest, at the moment of victory or defeat, and somewhere in there I learned how they work.

Of course some of Viss's story will always be beyond me. I don't know poverty or anything that goes with it. I can relate to her broken nose, but not to being denied medical care for it, which she obviously was for it to still be noticeably crooked. I don't dare speculate on the chunk of her hair that's shorter than the rest, like someone cut it off. But I know the attitude of someone who's learned to assume the worst and never get her hopes up. She controls herself because it's the only thing she can do, filling her own head with white noise to avoid thinking, like how I used to sing songs to myself when I was little and scared of the dark. You can't hurt if you don't think.

I was like that for a while, before I realized that some people might hate me, but enough would still love me that I'd be okay. I think Viss has done it for long enough that it became real. It could've been undone, though. Someone just had to make her feel safe enough to let her guard down. The Hunger Games probably made her much, much worse.

I'm surprised she asked me to stay. It's not her style. Not at all. But it's not like she had a reason to…

Oh, no.

_That's _why I feel sick. It was a dirty bomb. She tricked me, playing my sympathy to make me stay here in the fallout, making me weaker.

Which means Luka is still out there somewhere. Three others left, not two.

I sigh and stand up, taking one last look at Viss before jogging away from the balcony. The tunnel is dark and cool.

My motivation crashes and burns as the emotional rush of Ariel's death fades. What _could _I do against the Capitol, anyway? They have my family. How many Victors have left the Arena swearing the same oath, to tear the Capitol to the ground? None of them seem to have done it yet.

And the idea of killing Des _and _Luka is… exhausting. I don't _want_ to kill Kaya, but she's my age and she's a fighter. The other two… I've given up on the mockingjay thing, but I'd still be a monster if I did that.

So what am I supposed to do?

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

I don't seem to be dying. But nothing else is happening, either.

No news is good news? I have no idea, especially for Kaya and I. We're both in the same weird situation: apparently not fatally injured, but hurt too badly to do much of anything. The sponsors are generous with the food, water, and medicine, which is great, but also strange. Why are they being so nice when we're being so boring?

I puzzle over it to distract myself from the fact that I killed Amaris.

Killing Caddis… I dunno, I did it for Viss, I really did. Only one of the two could live, and I chose the one who was more important to me. I still feel sick when I think about it, but in an awful way, I feel justified. I think I did the right thing.

I _could _justify killing Amaris by saying I did it for Kaya, but that would be a big, fat lie. I wasn't thinking about Kaya when I pulled the trigger. I was thinking about that knife breaking the skin of my stomach and how much I didn't want it going any deeper.

I know self-defense is a reasonable excuse to kill. From what Amaris said, she already killed six people. I wouldn't judge someone else for doing the exact same thing I did.

But _still. _It doesn't change the fact that I'm a fucking murderer. Who else in the Arena has killed two people, other than Luther and the Careers? Even Viss only killed once. I'm not who I thought I was. Despite Dad's best efforts, there's a little bit of that District Three ruthless streak in me. Just like Viss.

I don't know what to think about her now that she's not here. I stayed by her side pretty much from that night on the train until she left. I got used to the silence and coldness and hardness, and I didn't mind it, because there's more to her than that if you look. Making her smile or even laugh could banish the useless-slash-unreal feeling for hours.

There was always something missing, though. Maybe just that she didn't trust me, and fought me tooth and claw when I tried to earn it. Or maybe we just weren't on the same page. I wanted to be honest, do the best I could, let her see me for exactly what I am. She, I think, didn't want to be equals. Not that she thought she was better than me. Almost the opposite. Like I was something valuable, for which she was obligated to sacrifice everything. Like she thought she'd corrupt me if she got too close.

Was?

There's no reason to think she's dead, I remind myself, shifting a little to relieve the pain on my back and yelping when the movement tears open part of the wound Caddis left for the zillionth time. The sound bothers Kaya, who mutters something in her sleep, tries to roll over, and wakes up with a gasp at the pain from the movement.

"Sorry," I say hoarsely.

"Not your fault."

"You okay?"

"Eh, same old," she sighs. "You?"

"Bored."

"Twenty questions?"

"Yeah, sure. You go first."

"Okay," she says. "Hmm. I'm thinking of something in this room."

"Is it bleeding?"

"Yep."

"Is it me?"

"Yep."

"Too easy. My turn."

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

I'm lost. There's no sign of tributes, monsters, or anything else. Just tunnel after hallway after tunnel, some rough and dark, some bright and clean, all blending together after a while. I don't know how long I've been walking, but it's been most of a day at least.

I keep trying to motivate myself, but it's like trying to get pumped up to run the mile in gym class when I got three hours of sleep the night before. Even I don't believe what I'm telling myself. Besides, I just feel so… detached. It's hard to believe the other tributes are real, not to mention the Capitol and the Gamemakers and all of that. Just as soon as I get hungry or thirsty, I find food and water around the next corner. I feel like a rat in a maze.

Mom and Rosalind are real, though. Right? They have to be.

I look at my reflection in a dark window to make sure _I'm _real. I seem to be. Same light brown eyes, same coarse hair in its usual attempt at a bun, same huge nose, no matter what Mom says. My reflection looks exhausted and just the slightest bit manic.

Out of nowhere, I'm scared.

Something bad is about to happen. I'm positive Something's going to pop up on the other side of the window, or appear over my reflection's shoulder.

Nothing. I back away from the window and look up and down the bright hallway. There's only clean, cold metal and tile floors, a soft _whoosh_ing noise from the pipes above me. But it all seems unfriendly now, like I've wandered somewhere I'm not supposed to be. Not like I'm in the wrong building. Like I'm in the wrong _dimension._

My heart races. I glance from side to side, anticipating monsters slinking around the corner in either direction, but they don't come. The seconds stretch on.

And the lights go out. And I scream.

**Kaya Redfell, District Seven, 18**

I blink in the darkness, trying and failing to sit up as the ambient hum of machinery winds down into silence. This can't be good. Not that it matters, since there's nothing I can do about it either way, nor Luka. Guess I'll just have to wait and see what's going on. Something tells me we won't be getting any more sponsor gifts, which is a bit concerning, seeing as I stopped breathing a few hours ago.

I knew it was coming, in a curiously quiet way. Like being at a party and knowing my ride would be there soon. No fear. Just the vague awareness that I was almost out of time.

Luka noticed eventually. I tried to hide it—he bleeds more when he gets his heart rate up, to the point of passing out for a few minutes once—but he has an eye for that kind of thing. Eventually we both accepted the fact that my lungs were shutting down.

Then something appeared on the floor next to him. Like an IV bag with an attached needle, labeled _liquid oxygen._

"… Is that a thing?" I gasped.

"Sure," Luka said matter-of-factly. "But I thought only at really high pressures or low temperatures. Not in any state you could stick in your blood, definitely. They must've come up with some crazy chemical you can metabolize at body temperature. Something like carboxylate, maybe?"

I remember just staring at the space in the darkness I estimated his face to be, at a loss for a response. I didn't think he was stupid, exactly. Okay, I did, but in his own clueless sort of way, not that he was bad at academics or anything like that. I still wasn't prepared for the word "carboxylate" to come from the mouth of a boy with blue-streaked hair and at least four piercings. That's what I get for stereotyping, I guess.

He swabbed the crook of my elbow with an alcohol wipe from the first aid kit and stuck the needle into my vein. It barely hurt, and he didn't hesitate. He'd definitely done it before.

Almost immediately, I felt better. More awake, anyway, and the headache I'd had for the last day or so faded away. Which made it a _bit _less alarming when my lungs stopped working. A bit.

It's better medicine than tributes usually get, especially tributes who are unambiguously down for the count. This is strange. But I'm not going to question it.

There's nothing weirder than lying there, alive and awake, but very much not breathing. At least I thought so, until the blackout happens and now I'm doing it in dead silence and darkness.

My first thought is that the bag of liquid oxygen I'm on is probably the last one I'm going to get. My second thought is that this whole situation is more than a little bit distressing.

Usually I'd be able to hear and feel myself breathing, but of course I can't. I only know I'm alive because of the the floor against my back and my heartbeat in my fingertips, plus the soft sound of Luka's breathing a few feet away. He fell asleep for what has to the the first time in days and it feels wrong to wake him up. If something terrible is about to happen, he's better off sleeping through it anyway.

I sigh and start finding things to think about to avoid panicking, although getting bored seems like the more likely danger. I file through every memory I have of my family and friends, of Caden studying in the middle of the kitchen, a little island of scholarly serenity in an ocean of Redfells clomping around in work boots, Mom's face lighting up rather than falling when she sees the wheelchair we made her, Markus and Dad saving each other's lives in the lumberyards.

Luka wakes up with a gasp.

I open my mouth to say something, then remember I can't talk if there's no air in my lungs.

"Kaya?" he says, his voice quiet, but on the verge of panic. I kick the floor with my heel to get his attention. He yelps at the noise, then he must realize it's probably me, because he rustles over and finds my hand in the dark. I smell blood when he comes near me. I want to tell him to calm down, but I can't.

And we wait.

And wait. And wait.

The door swings open with a barely-audible creak. My stomach flips. Luka makes a little squeaking noise, his grip on my hand tightening. I don't blame him after Amaris. Scared as he must be, though, there's the soft _snick _of him drawing his knife.

A flashlight is pointed at us. I squint into the beam with all my might, but I can't see the person holding it.

The thought of Luther crosses my mind and my heart sinks. It makes perfect sense. Her doing god knows what to Ariel and Viss and coming back for us. And if it took her this long to kill them…

Luka stands up unsteadily, facing the person with the flashlight. "W-Who are you?"

"Won't mean anything to you," a jarringly cheerful voice says. "But my name's Cleo."


	65. Bomb

**The Capitol**

"Sir. The, er, the interviewees for the final eight. They're gone."

"Arrest Deyna Balthazar."

"… What?"

"_Now."_

**Arena airspace**

It was lucky, Tibbi reflected, that the Gamemakers as a group were so widely trusted by the rest of the government. Their hovercraft was the size of a small ocean liner and at least as opulent, well-armed, well-shielded, and untraceable, designed to house every Gamemaker and thirty staff and technicians comfortably during the height of Arena-building season.

Lovely and all, but it didn't solve a few of Tibbi's serious problems: cutting the Arena's power meant turning off not only the tributes' wirelessly-powered trackers, but also the chips keeping track of which parts of the Arena were where. Which, in turn, meant sending her crew out to scour the Arena while she took over the few systems that ran on their own circuit: life support, cameras, monster containment, and the doors separating the Arena proper from the sub-levels where Capitol engineers worked. The engineers, she hoped, would lay low upon finding themselves locked in with no communication. They seemed to be cooperating thus far. They were damn lucky Viss hadn't headed down in the machine space instead of up and dropped into the middle of them with a knife.

Viss was the easiest to find, lying three-quarters-dead on a balcony at the Arena's one real landmark. Tibbi bit her lip as the girl was carried onboard. The entry bay filled with the smell of melted fabric and burned skin.

"Not a chance," the medic said before Tibbi could ask the obvious question. "Not with what I've got here. But bring her to the medical bay. I can make her comfortable, at least. Uh, maybe wash her off first; she's got to be covered in plutonium."

Next came Amelia, climbing up the ladder with a gun on her belt, cooperative, but wary.

"Your family is here!" Tibbi's assistant Sciella beamed at her. "Mind coming with me?"

Amelia froze, then followed Sciella from the entry bay.

Tibbi flipped through the systems she'd hijacked over and over, checking in with everyone she'd sent into the Arena. Each reported in turn, everything quiet, no tributes, no monsters, high radiation levels, but nothing that couldn't be treated.

She glanced up at a small scuffle from near the door, going wide-eyed when she found herself looking up at Joel Skade.

"Hello," she squeaked.

"Hi. You didn't tell us we were at the Arena. I only knew because Amelia walked past my door."

"I was sending the tributes up as we find them. We've only got Amelia and Viss so far."

Joel tensed. "You can't find Luka?"

"The trackers were run by power-transfer antennae on the main circuit," Tibbi said apologetically. "We're doing it the old-fashioned way. But his vitals were stable when the trackers went off, and there's nothing in there to hurt him."

"Let me help look."

"Sir–"

Tibbi's communicator beeped.

"Hey!" Cleo crowed. "Guess who's great? Yep, it's me. I got two of 'em. Ginger and Other Ginger. How good am I?"

Joel took a deep breath. "She means Luka, I guess?"

"Er, I would assume so."

"I'll wait here, then."

Desdemona's mother and sister had slipped into the entry bay in the midst of the chaos, Tibbi noticed, along with a small army of Kaya's family and friends. Amelia was back as well.

"It wasn't terribly emotional," Amelia said with a shrug when Tibbi raised an eyebrow. "They never thought I was going to die. We just said hello."

She stayed there, leaning against a little ground-ferry shuttle, arms crossed, watching everything that happened. Tibbi made a point of avoiding her eyes.

Soon enough, a man pulled himself into the bay carrying Kaya. There was an immediate explosion of shouting and crying and attempts to hug her, but eventually she was carried to the medical bay, followed by an entourage of yelling District Seven citizens. Tibbi silently wished the medic and his team luck. She wouldn't have been surprised to see Viss wake up from her coma just to snap at everyone to shut the hell up.

Cleo popped her head through the hatch at the top of the ladder. "Is it safe? Sounded like a hullaballoo. You know how I hate hullaballoos."

"Think so, yeah."

She nodded and clambered in, Luka slung over her shoulder.

"Had to sedate him," Cleo explained at Tibbi's questioning glance. "Got all jumpy about whether we'd found Viss yet. Made him bleed too much."

Joel stood perfectly still aside from a twitch in his jaw, like he wanted desperately to snatch Luka from Cleo, but knew he'd end up hurting both of them if he did and was exercising every shred of self-control to stop himself.

Cleo seemed to catch on to the same thing. "Oh, right, you're Big Ginger. Here, you want him? Be my guest. Little snip gets heavy after a while."

"Medical bay is that way," Tibbi suggested. "Maybe get him stitched up before the tranq wears off?"

Joel swallowed hard, nodded, and left, barely changing his stride to accommodate Luka's weight.

Rosalind and Gertrude Crow were left in the bay with Amelia and the Capitolites. Tibbi was tempted to try to get them to relax, but that sort of thing had never been her forte. People and feelings and all. She was wondering which of her minions had the best social skills when her question was answered by Amelia, who crossed the bay to talk to them, apologizing profusely for leaving Des behind but assuring them that Des had been perfectly healthy the last time she saw her.

"Still can't find it," Tibbi's communicator said.

Gertrude, Des's mother, looked up. "It?"

"Er, there are a few things we need other than Des. We're not leaving without her, though."

"What things?"

"Hold up," the communicator said. "Wait, is that…? Yep, don't know where it is, but I see Desdemona. I'll send her up. Hey, Desdemona! No, don't run, it's okay!"

"… Ah," Gertrude said weakly.

Des appeared at the top of the ladder a few minutes later, shaky, but as alert as Amelia. She threw herself at her mother and sister. The Capitolites looked away from the tears awkwardly—and perhaps a bit guiltily in some cases—until the Crows stumbled from the entry bay.

"So do we leave now?" Amelia said quietly. "Or do we wait until you find… whatever it is?"

"We wait."

"What are you looking for, exactly?"

"Er…"

"If you tell me, I might know where it is."

Tibbi licked her lips. "We, er, well. We want the bomb. The one Ariel built."

Amelia sucked in a breath at the name, but her face stayed calm. "It never left the laboratory, as far as I know."

"We can't find the laboratory, though. Aside from the major shifts, the Arena makes small changes constantly. I don't have a recent blueprint of it."

"If you'd come a little sooner, Ariel probably could've told you."

A few Gamemakers looked up at Tibbi as if wondering how she'd react. She ignored them, but hesitated before answering. "I came as soon as I could."

For a moment Amelia looked like she might get angry, but she just sighed and nodded. "I'm sure you did. Thank you for that. What happens now? After we find the bomb, I mean?"

"Well… that's a little ambiguous."

"How so?"

"We haven't quite settled on a course of action yet."

Amelia frowned. "What are the options?"

"Well, er, we could deliver an ultimatum, but then we might find ourselves fighting the entire Peacekeeper force if Fife calls our bluff."

"Or?"

"We don't bluff."

Amelia's eyebrows shot up, but she didn't speak.

"We cut off the snake's head," Tibbi went on. "Nothing in the Capitol is designed to survive a nuclear strike; none of the Districts have had the capability to pull one in decades, maybe centuries. The nuclear material in Five is kept under lock and key, and Thirteen, well…"

"Was that the point of the Arena?"

"My idea," Tibbi said proudly. "I talked Deyna into it. Getting the plutonium and everything. I sent all the bomb equipment, too. Fife cleared it personally, as long as the switches were rigged not to detonate. But it's reversible."

"Did you reap Ariel just so he'd build it?" Amelia asked calmly.

Tibbi gulped, realizing the conversation might be headed into dangerous territory. "I, er. Well. I didn't need him to build it. As long as the stuff was in the Arena, we could retrieve it and build the bomb ourselves. Him putting it together for us was… convenient, although of course we'll have to check his work."

"But you needed him in the Arena to justify sending it."

"… Yes. I arranged for Ariel to be Reaped. And I'm very sorry for…"

"I'm tempted to say he'd be happy to know he was sacrificed for a reason," Amelia said quietly. "But he wouldn't."

"I'm sorry," Tibbi said helplessly.

Amelia shook her head. "I understand why you did it. If not him, it would've been someone else. Are his parents here?"

"They're upstairs. So is Amaris's family, and those District Three kids. It seemed… impolite to have them down here, but I couldn't leave them in the Capitol. You could see if they'll talk to you."

"Not now," Amelia said ruefully. "Maybe when I'm in a better mood. I might have some strong words for them. I saw those interviews."

Tibbi's communicator beeped again. "Got it!" a shrill female voice yelled. "It's on Level Four now. Go to the pit balcony and find the tunnel with an old desk in front of it. First right, and you'll be right there."

"Would you excuse me?" Tibbi said apologetically.

"Of course."

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

They give Rosalind and Mom and I a few hours to hug and cry all over each other in our little room, like one in a hotel. I'm still in shock. It's over. I'm safe. Relatively speaking. And I didn't even kill anyone.

It's a comfort, but not much. I think I need a few more hours of hugs. After Castalia and Felicity and Elfor, Atlas and Ted and Ariel… am I even remembering everyone I either allied with or saw die? I don't know how I'm supposed to sleep.

Then a man knocks on the door and tells us I have to come down to the medical bay for treatment.

"For what?" I ask shakily, keeping a death grip on Rosalind. "I'm not hurt."

"Radiation damage."

"But I'm not sick."

The man launches into a spiel about genetic damage and lifetime stochastic risk. Some of it goes over my head, but I get the general idea. In terms of cancer risk, the Games aged me fifty years.

"But we can fix ninety-nine point two percent of it," he assures me.

That sounds good, I guess. The three of us exchange glances, then stand up as a clump and shuffle after him.

The medical bay is chaos. For only five people being treated, there's an awful lot going on. Amelia volunteers her bed by the wall, on the grounds that I seem a bit more shaken up than she is and she doesn't mind being closer to the noise. Her twin follows her, pushing the IV stand feeding the needle in her arm. They settle down and continue whatever quiet conversation they were having.

I'm grateful, because now I have them as a buffer between me and Kaya. Kaya herself is quiet, but she's surrounded by what I think is her mother, father, two brothers, and three friends, all of whom have a whole lot of feelings about everything that's going on. She seems groggy, like she's waking up from anesthesia, and her chest is covered in bandages.

The bed beyond her is empty. It's supposed to be Luka's, but he's at the far end, where Viss is. I don't know whether she's alive or not.

They were allies, I remember. Close ones. _Very _close ones, judging from the way his shoulders are shaking, visible from across the room. I think he would be on the ground in a heap if his father weren't holding him up. When there's a lull in the noise around Kaya's bed I hear him crying softly. Not in a calm way, though; more in the way people cry when they've been sobbing for hours and don't have the energy anymore.

So Viss is going to die. Then there will be four of us. Four left alive, out of twenty-four who went in.

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

I think the feelings wiring in my brain has been burned out.

First Amaris. Then Cleo. Then Cleo knocking me out, then waking up in a clinic bed with Dad next to me, then looking over the seeing Viss. My first crisis is deciding which direction to launch myself in. How am I supposed to choose between them?

Dad must see it in my face, because he switches sides so I can lose my shit about both of them at once. He gets me.

I tumble out of bed. He catches me, making sure to keep the IV line in my arm, but otherwise does exactly what I want him to do, which is hug me so tightly it almost hurts. Now, at last, I believe it's over. I made it. I'm alive.

Viss, though…

Dad senses me getting twitchy and lets me go, keeping an arm around my back and helping me to Viss's bedside. It looks… not very good.

"D-Do you know…?" I ask shakily. My voice doesn't sound like it's mine.

Dad hesitates.

"She's dying," I say quietly. "Right?"

"The medics think so. They stabilized her, but she took more radiation than they can fix. I'm sorry," he whispers.

I bite my lip. Everything goes blurry with tears in seconds. It's worse, almost, things ending this way. We _could _have both survived. I shouldn't have let her go. I shouldn't have come to her room that night in the first place; she would've done so much better on her own, not having to save me, what, three times? Four?

Dad pulls a chair from nowhere for me. There are tears in his eyes, too. He always cries when I cry.

"Is she ever gonna wake up? Before she…?"

"She moved a while ago. I dunno."

I reach out hesitantly and take her hand even though it feels like I shouldn't be allowed. "Hey, Viss?" I say softly.

She opens her eyes. I almost fall out of my chair. She regards me for a second, narrow brown eyes calm, then shifts her gaze to Dad and his arm around my back. The ghost of a smug smile crosses her lips and she closes her eyes again.

"Yeah," I choke out. "You did it. Thank you."

No response.

"But now I know you can hear me, can't you?"

The tiniest squeeze of my hand.

"And I b-bet you think this is fucking hilarious, d-don't you? Or at least I really fucking hope so, and that you're not s-scared or anything like that because you don't deserve to be, you know that, you never did, y-you…"

And that's as far as I can get before collapsing into a sobbing mess. I let it happen. I could try to control myself, but I don't think that does anyone any good, least of all Viss. She wants to know I care, I think. She wants me to be okay, and to move on, but she wants to know I'll remember her. And I will. Always.

**Next day, outside Panem airspace**

**Kaya Redfell, District Seven, 18**

A woman who introduces herself as Sciella sits with us in the medical bay for a while and explains everything. She tells us about waiting for enough Peacekeepers to abandon the Arena for them to take the Gamemaker craft, about Tibbi getting Deyna to manipulate Fife into sending them, about how a team of engineers is studying a nuclear bomb a few rooms over.

"I do wish you weren't being forced into this," she says apologetically. "But I'm sure you understand why we can't simply drop you off at home."

My friends look a little worried, and I don't blame them; their families are still in District Seven, after all. And I have other friends, extended family… It's comforting to know my parents and brothers won't be taken as reprisals, but I'm not exactly thrilled with the whole situation.

"It shouldn't come to anything like that, though," Sciella assures us. "Nuclear bomb and all. It'll be simple."

"Simple," I repeat weakly.

"How big?" Desdemona's mother asks in disbelief. "Are you planning on destroying the entire Capitol, or just the government sector, or…?"

Sciella licks her lips uncertainly. "Well, that's the thing. We're not entirely sure."


	66. Lazarus

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

There's no panic and yelling when Viss dies, like in the movies. No scramble to get a defibrillator or anything like that. The spikes on the monitor just slow and shudder and stop and that's it. It's so unceremonious that for a minute I just sit there, uncomprehending, because that couldn't have been death I just witnessed. Nothing has changed, other than the pattern on the monitor. I don't understand.

She'd been unconscious for at least a day. Tons of pain medication. She never yelled or anything like that, but the medic told me either her neck was broken or she was putting an obscene amount of willpower into not letting anything show, and also that her neck definitely wasn't broken. Which meant she must have been suffering for hours and just fucking dealing with it because she didn't want to upset me.

I hate that. _Hate _it. Lying to me to protect my feelings? Not my favorite thing, but whatever. That? Hell no. So my last words to her were probably something along the lines of _goddammit Viss why do you have to go and–_

She shot me that smug smile again right as she passed out. I think she was fucking with me at that point.

The medic slides past me quietly and starts disconnecting IV lines and stuff from her. My knee-jerk reaction is to stop him, but it's irrational and I know it.

It just doesn't _feel _like she's dead. Even though she just fucking died in front of me. The idea of living the rest of my life without her is too absurd to wrap my head around, which means I have to be misinterpreting something about the situation. Somehow, this isn't final.

"Should I go?" Dad asks gruffly.

My brain isn't working well enough to make any kind of decision. "Um…?"

"I think I should. I'll be right outside."

He clumps out. I realize with shock that I'm alone. Kaya was moved to a bedroom a few hours ago, and Amelia and Des wandered off as soon as their radiation treatment was done yesterday. It's just me. Me and Viss's dead body.

I'm scared of it.

It? Her? I don't know. I'm drawn to _her, _but repulsed by _it._ And it doesn't matter anyway, because all of her that counts is gone forever and I just don't understand why.

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

The ship, I'm told, is called the Lazarus. Something about the Games always returning one way or the other, no matter how hard people try to destroy them.

I've been following Tibbi around. It's the best way to find out what's going on. The rebels aren't keeping secrets from us, exactly; it's more that they don't have time to answer questions on demand. But I can figure a lot of it out on my own.

One of the first things I learn the day after they grab us is that they seem to have made a disastrous mistake.

"We can't do anything with it," a harried-looking engineer hisses to Tibbi.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he built it according to specifications none of us have ever seen before and sealed the whole thing tight. We X-rayed it and I think he booby-trapped the damn thing. We can't open it without getting a facefull of plutonium."

"I don't need it opened," Tibbi points out. "I need it to explode. Don't tell me he rigged the switches?"

"I'm not sure what to tell you, then."

"But _I _rigged the switches!" Tibbi pouts. "Damn it all. What did he have to go and do that for?"

"Spite?" the engineer suggests.

I snicker into my hand. Knowing Ariel, the engineer is absolutely correct. He wouldn't stand for anyone but him setting off his bomb.

"He built it so only he could set it off," the engineer says, right on cue. Called it.

Tibbi groans. "Shit."

"I don't know what to tell you. We can risk trying to take it apart, but…"

"No, don't do that. What do you mean, only he can set it off?"

"Some kind of conditional for the main firing mechanism to go live. No way to know what it is, and who knows what'll happen if we try something and guess wrong. Could be a spoken password, fingerprint, both, neither… there's so much lead in there it's impossible to get a look at the circuits."

Tibbi turns to me awkwardly. "Amelia, he didn't by any chance tell you…?"

"No idea." I can't help feeling a little smug on his behalf, even though I know it's bad news for all of us. Making everyone's lives difficult from beyond the grave. Heroic sacrifice be damned; _that _is what Ariel would've wanted.

"Fuck," Tibbi mutters.

"Now what?" I ask.

"Now things get more difficult and dangerous. Oh, dear. I really didn't want to have to try this."

"Try what?"

Tibbi twists her hair into a bun. She does that when she's nervous, I've noticed. She's obviously stressed out, more than a little scared, and… guilty?

"Try what, Tibbi?" I ask again.

"Sending someone into the Capitol."

"Why would you do that?"

"Promise you won't get upset?"

I have a bad feeling about this, but I nod. "I promise. What's going on?"

"On Fife's personal request, Ariel was pulled from the Arena alive."

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

If Amelia is anything, it's calm and composed. So when I walk by the door to the command room and hear her sputtering incoherently, I know something interesting is happening.

"Er… help me out here, is this good news or bad news to you?" Tibbi asks uncomfortably.

"I don't know!" Amelia squawks. "I mean, why… what the… what do they _want _with…?"

Tibbi twiddles her thumbs. "Er."

"… Oh."

"Well…"

"Oh, god."

"Look, I didn't _want_ to–"

Amelia's voice drops into scary mode. "Get him out of there. Now."

"Well, I've got no choice now, do I?" Tibbi grumbles. "If we're blowing Fife sky-high."

"Why didn't you _do _anything?" Amelia protests. "You could've just–"

"Because I'd be risking more lives if I did, and he's no more important than anyone else. I'm not happy about any of what happened to him, okay? But there was nothing I could do about it, not without either letting more tributes die or risking the whole thing going belly-up. Which it still might, because of this."

"You mean you _can't _get him out?"

"I mean he'll be surrounded by the most powerful people in the Capitol, and their security," Tibbi says. "And god only knows what kind of state he's in, after what Luther did and… and what will have happened since then."

I peek around the doorframe, wondering if I'm hearing wrong. Luther? Are they talking about Ariel? But I saw him die.

Right? He definitely went into the pit, anyway. I guess I can't be _positive _he died in there. He went under so fast, compared to poor Castalia; I remember thinking it looked less like he drowned and more like something pulled him under, out of sight at the very bottom of the Arena, right where all the behind-the-scenes machinery apparently is.

Hmm.

But why would the Gamemakers pull him from the Arena and save his life? Why couldn't they have saved Castalia while they were at it? His injuries looked so much worse. I don't get it.

The command room is the only part of the ship other than the entry bay that doesn't look like a fancy hotel. Honestly, it looks so much like parts of the Arena that for a second I want to turn and run. But I want to know what's going on.

"Oh, hey, Des," Amelia says as I walk in. "Uh, sorry for leaving you behind at the end there. I wasn't really thinking straight."

I really do like Amelia. She's very sweet when you don't have to worry about her killing you.

"I understand. It's okay," I say with a shrug. "So… Ariel, huh?"

Amelia makes a little huffing noise. "The one and only. So Tibbi, please tell me you at least have a plan to get him."

"I wasn't expecting to need him, so no. I have friends left in the Capitol, but they're not exactly the confrontational types."

"Maybe they don't need to be," I point out.

Tibbi frowns. "They're not going to let someone just walk out with him."

"No one has to walk out with him. Someone can just tell him where to walk out to. Right?"

"They're not going to allow that, either."

"I doubt they'd expect it, though," Amelia points out. "Where would he go? His face is probably the most recognizable in Panem right now, maybe after Fife and Balthazar. And his parents are with us. Who would take him in? He wouldn't dare run, or they wouldn't expect him to dare, anyway."

Tibbi bites her lip. "Well…"

"Well, what?"

"You, er, may be ascribing a bit more…" She waves a hand around vaguely. "… _initiative _to him than he currently possesses."

Amelia doesn't even blink. "And you might be underestimating him."

"Motivating him to take a risk like that–"

"– Will be easy, if you offer him the chance to help blow up the Capitol."

Tibbi frowns. "Are you sure about that?"

"Positive. There's only one thing he likes more than attention, and that's spiting people. If you can tell him how to get out of the Capitol, he'll do it."

"Hmm," Tibbi says, sticking her lip out thoughtfully and tapping the metal tabletop. "If you're really, really, _really _sure…"

"I am."

"Then I might have an idea."

**And then there were… still five, as it turns out.**


	67. Whatever You Have To

**This is the part where the first time around I was like, is this really believable? Would politically powerful people really abuse that power like this? And then the universe went ahead and answered that question, so, uh, here we are.**

**Anyway, CW implied everything. It's not graphic but like… eep. This is roughly the third nastiest chapter? Something like that? The summary should be starting to make sense now-ish.**

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

I should know by now to expect the worst. It can always get worse.

Luther knocked me out and I woke up cuffed to an operating table. I fell in the pit and woke up on _another _operating table, screaming before I was fully conscious, because you know what really doesn't mix with radiation burns? Fucking chemical burns. And they were already sticking me full of tubes and needles—I don't think they bothered to give me painkillers, not until much later—and I was in and out, but I heard enough to know exactly what was going on. _Get it off his face first. No, don't cut there, it's too visible._

They wanted me to stay pretty. It didn't take a genius to guess why.

It didn't sink in then, though. I was too distracted by the hours—days? Weeks? Fuck if I know—of light and sound, people running around, poking at me, cutting me open, second after second after second after second after second it never stopped. I swear they swapped out all my insides. I was conscious while they cut my fucking heart out. I don't know if I ever slept. I don't see how I could've. They just knocked me out now and then to keep my brain from frying even further beyond repair, I think.

Morphling was the only thing I remember clearly that didn't hurt. It felt like cool water on a burn. I started pleading for it as soon as I could talk and never stopped.

I got better, sort of. My notion of pain turned to liquid and twisted around and writhed away from me so I never knew what I was feeling. But I looked normal. Better than normal. I think they "fixed" whatever preexisting imperfections I might've had, for just in case I didn't already know damn well why I was there.

My skin isn't mine anymore. My guts aren't, either; the beating heart in my chest was probably grown in a lab somewhere. God knows my mind doesn't belong to me. What _am _I, at this point? Just a bit of scattered consciousness sealed in here, along for the ride? But of course they can't just cut me loose and make a lobotomized clone of me to serve the exact same purpose, because where's the fun in that? Where's the exclusivity, where's the power trip? Somewhere in everything that happened, I became… much more interesting than I really am, I think. Symbolic of something. It's my reality itself, what's going on in my head, that they want to have by the throat. Feel _entitled _to. Because they're important and I'm nothing, get nothing, deserve nothing in my own right, because they decided, and have the power to make it so.

In any case, I shouldn't be surprised. But when I wake up and find myself somewhere warm and cozy, for a second I'm kind of okay. I've had worse, right? Oh, and someone's… hugging me? That's nice. Right?

… Right?

I'm so out of it I just lie there for a second, not knowing what the fuck is going on, but content enough for the moment. I've never been the cuddly type, but whatever; if that's how things end up the next morning–

Wait.

The thought crosses my mind right as I open my eyes. _That _sure jogs my memory. Because there's a middle-aged orange-haired guy fast asleep with his beefy arm around me, smushing me against his hairy chest. He smells like ink and nightmare-sweat.

No. No no no. Please no. I'm going to get up and leave and tell myself nothing happened and–

I'm cuffed to the bed. Same pose as Luther's setup in the operating theatre. A coincidence?

I'm going to scream. I'm going to kill someone. I'm going to kill _him. _Or myself. Or both. Yeah, both.

Oh. No, apparently I'm going to cry. Not just because I'm upset. All at once, everything hurts, and I don't know if it's Arena injuries or if this guy hurt me or it's all in my head or what, but I can't deal with it. I can't deal with anything. Every shred of armor, every wall, every coping mechanism I had has been smashed to dust. I barely remember what it feels like to have willpower. Pride is a distant fantasy.

But there is one thing to motivate me to action: he's touching me and I need him to stop.

I wonder if I should know who he is. Probably someone important. First dibs and all. What did he trade for me? Money? A vote? I'm morbidly curious to know what I cost.

I wriggle away carefully, freezing every time he moves in his sleep, biting back a yell of I-don't-even-know-what-emotion when he mutters something incoherent—the tone is nauseatingly affectionate—and pulls me toward him again, undoing my last fifteen minutes of work.

But finally I get there, slipping over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Most of me, anyway. My hands are staying right where they are, a few inches from the middle of the headboard, the metal cuffs digging into my wrists when I pull away as far as I possibly can and huddle against the wall. I'm in a bit of luck, relatively speaking; there's a little fleece blanket on the floor. I snag it with a foot and pull it over my shoulders with my teeth. Better.

Yeah, now the situation is just fucking great.

It's not my fault. I know that damn well. But I also know if I hadn't done what I did in about fifty different places, I wouldn't be here right now, and it's maddening.

… Maddening.

The word crosses my mind and I feel cold. I've been avoiding the idea, but only by keeping my thoughts skipping along like rocks across a pond, turning away before the inevitable vanishing tumble into darkness. Something's wrong with me. It's like there's something in my head with me, always in my peripheral vision, darting away whenever I try to get a good look at it. I'm thinking straight for now, but the cracks are there and they're only going to grow and then it'll get in. I really don't want to feel it happen. I want morphling. Or a gun.

I keep saying that to myself, and then not following through, and it keeps being a mistake not to. I won't make it again.

I almost suffocate myself in the pillow so I can cry into it without waking him up.

**Kieri Fonte, District Ten Stylist**

It's a standard assignment for the evening of an elite government reception: doll up somebody's escort. Sometimes I get Capitol citizens trying to rise in the ranks the old-fashioned way. Sometimes it's Victors. Sometimes it's people I've never seen before. I never bother checking who it is in advance. I can come up with a look on the fly; I'm good like that. Fortunate, because my assignment was changed five minutes ago. Any other stylist would be frantic, but I'm cool and calm.

I check my LED eyebrows in my pocket mirror and step into my styling room. Then I look up, yelp, and step right back out.

The coordinator catches me as I stumble backwards into the hallway. "Problem?"

"He's…?"

"What?"

"Isn't he dead?"

She gives me a look. "Did he look dead to you?"

I peek into the room again to be sure. The boy's cold eyes snap up to meet mine and I jump back out into the hallway. "Nnno?"

"Shouldn't be a problem, then."

"But… he can't be stable. Shouldn't I have at least one Peacekeeper?"

The coordinator waves me off. "He doesn't hit. You'll be fine. Sync your computer to his cuff if that'll make you happy."

"Fine," I pout.

"Oh, and be discreet. Officially, he _is _dead."

I nod weakly. She walks away.

It's mostly Avoxes who wear the cuff—a tight metal tracker bracelet that can shock or tranquilize them—but now and then one of the people I see has one. Usually the less cooperative Victors, who can't be trusted not to throw a punch on impulse or jump onto the roof of the first train out of the Capitol.

I look him up on the computer around my forearm, sync it to his cuff, and tiptoe back into my styling room. The boy's eyes are locked on me, his expression blank.

_Boy. _I would feel so much better if I could think _man, _but it's just not true; he's taller than me, but the kind of skinny unique to adolescents, his face too smooth, and I remember from the Games that his voice hasn't quite dropped to an adult pitch. Those nights of Tibbi ranting about the Games and all that go with them come to mind. I was already on her side, but now more so than ever. He's a child. This is wrong.

What can I do, though? My first thought is to make him look as young and innocent as possible so no one would dream of touching him, but I realize with a wince that the effect might be just the opposite.

The boy crosses his arms defensively and I realize I've been staring at him. I want to reassure him I'm not a threat, only I am, aren't I? My job is to make him look desirable and they'll have my head if I don't do it.

"Hi," I say. "You're Ariel, right?"

For a moment I think he's going to ignore me, but he gives me a shallow nod.

"I'm Kieri."

He gives me a _that's nice _look.

"Um. Do you talk?"

"I'd rather not." His voice is raspier than I remember it. All the screaming, maybe.

I take a deep breath and swallow hard. "I'll try to minimize the questions, then. Can I do your makeup?"

He laughs ruefully. Maybe a little manically. "Look, I appreciate the thought. But does it really matter whether it's okay with me or not?"

"Well…"

"Honestly. What would you do if I said no?"

"Not do it," I say matter-of-factly. "But they'd only send another stylist who won't care. I'm sorry."

The boy—Ariel—frowns. "Are you supposed to be talking to me like that?"

"Like what?"

"You know. Like I'm a human with rights," he says slowly. "Are there cameras in here?"

"Of course not. Celebrities get changed in here; it would be scandalous. Celebrities with… slightly more _clout _than… um… you."

"I see."

"Mm. So, um… _can _I do your makeup?"

"I suppose. I'm sure I'll look darling."

I don't make him look 'darling'. I make him look dangerous and not even remotely inviting. Handsome, but ruthlessly so, hard-eyed and grim, like the prince of a dark, icy kingdom. The kind that remembers the face of everyone that crosses him. Maybe, just maybe, it'll give someone second thoughts.

Ariel catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and raises an eyebrow. "Interesting choice."

I shrug.

"I like it very much. Thank you." He catches my eye and I think he sees what I'm trying to do.

"Just doing my job."

He tugs at the neck of his vest, taking what looks like it's supposed to be a deep breath but doesn't seem to get him much air at all. "Are you really?" he says.

"Yes." His vest, I notice, looks absurdly tight and uncomfortable. It's one of those structured ones with false buttons on the front and fasteners on the back, concealed by the suit jacket. "You can take that off if you want; you're skinny enough as it is."

"I can't. I tried."

"I'll get it."

Ariel swallows hard, stands up, and wriggles out of his jacket. I start tugging at the fasteners. Whoever put the vest on him was downright cruel about it; I'm surprised the poor boy was getting enough air to stay conscious. And he really is skinny as-is, like no one bothered to get him back up to a normal weight after the starvation diet of the Games. They just… couldn't wait.

Now I'm _really_ angry. I always feel bad for the people I style who clearly don't want to be there, but this is too much, and he's too young. They usually leave them alone until they're at least of age and have had time to recover from the Games. Before I put the makeup on, he was sickly pale, dark circles under his eyes. He favors his right leg when he stands up and flinches when he tries to take a deep breath, like his ribs are still hurt.

I undo the vest. A scrap of paper flutters to the floor from where it had been stuck between the vest and the back of his shirt.

Hmm. I pick it up and unfold it.

_If you're reading this, I know you too well, you bleeding-heart._

_Try to get him to tell you how to make it go live. He'll know what you mean. Send word back however you can. Do whatever you have to._

_If you can't, disguise him and get him to Bluegate where we used to go after school. Use a jewelry saw for the tracker. This is a last resort. If I have to send people in now, people will almost certainly die. I can try to retrieve both of you safely if I have more time to plan, but I need that information now._

The note is unsigned, but I know who it's from. Tibbi.

"What's that?" Ariel asks warily.

"Can I ask you something else?"

"I imagine so."

"How would one 'make it go live'?"

He narrows his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Do you know what that means?"

"I might."

"Well… how, then?"

He snatches the note from my hands and scans it. "You can get me out of here," he says. It's a statement, not a question.

"I…"

"But you'll only do it if I don't tell you. She wants to drop my own fucking bomb on me, doesn't she?"

I lick my lips nervously.

Ariel reads the note again. "_Do whatever you have to_," he says quietly, glancing from my computer to the cuff around his wrist. A little tremor creeps into his voice. "Oh, my. Again, really?"

I'm not going to use the cuff. Of course I'm not. The idea is laughable. What does he think I am?

"Well?"

I shake my head. "I'm not going to make you tell me. I'm going to take you to Bluegate."

He swallows hard. "Thank you."

I don't even know how to respond to that. _You're welcome _seems… incorrect. So I just don't.

"But if you tell me, I can tell her right now," I say instead. "So her plan won't depend on us getting out."

Ariel considers that. And almost smiles when an idea seems to occur to him. "No," he says, clearly savoring the word.

"What? Why?" I ask, digging a jewelry saw from the drawer. I don't touch the cuff yet; I'm sure breaking it will set off an alarm somewhere.

"Because whoever's in charge here is clearly more than happy to sacrifice me in every possible way. I have no faith that they'll save me for my own sake. So I'm not telling them how to fire it until they do."

"But Ariel…"

He does that same thing as in the Games, snapping from apparent serenity to fury in a split second, his quiet voice dropping to a deadly-cold hiss. "I. Said. _No."_

I take a step back. "Okay," I squeak. "We'll leave, then. Sit down so I can disguise you. Please."

Ariel sinks back into the chair warily. He's shaking, breathing hard. He played it calm when he asked if I was going to shock him, but I saw his skin go ashen when he read that part. It's obvious that he's a complete mess not far beneath the surface. There's no way Tibbi would want to leave him here if she knew. Right? Tibbi was always the pragmatic one, but even she couldn't be _that _ruthless. She wouldn't kill him, after all this. Or worse, leave him here and _not _drop the bomb.

I think.

And I'm lying to myself. I know it deep down. Ariel is putting everything at risk, but I can't blame him, because he's right. Tibbi would abandon him in a heartbeat. That information is the only shred of power he has and he's savvy enough to play it for all it's worth.

So. Time to make him look like absolutely anyone else, and myself too while I'm at it.

I pull out my palette and go to work.

**Sorry this is just turning into The Ariel Show, but, y'know, plot.**


	68. Deyna

**The Capitol**

"Balthazar!"

"Sir?"

"What the fuck, Balthazar?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, sir. You see, I've been in a prison cell for quite a while now, aside from the occasional enhanced interrogation. You'll have to bring me up to speed."

Fife snarled and tore up a piece of paper. His pale purple hair was showing brown at the roots. "As if you don't already know. One of your Gamemakers took the hovercraft and broke into the Arena."

Deyna gasped. "That's impossible. Those force fields are powered by a generator inside the field itself; how could anyone have-?"

"There was some kind of EMP inside the Arena. Someone snuck it in. Probably through a tribute."

"Who would ever do a thing like that?"

"Possibly the same stylist who just cut Ariel Sevasti's tracker off him."

Deyna clapped a theatrical hand over his mouth. "Heavens to Betsy."

"Shut up and sign your goddamn confession, Balthazar."

Deyna skipped over to Fife's desk, frowning. "Confession? But I didn't have anything to do with any of this."

"To be honest, at this point, I don't care," Fife growled, holding out a pen. "Shut up, sign the paper, and get out. I've got enough problems to deal with."

"Life is hard," Deyna agreed serenely, taking the pen and ramming it into Fife's jugular.

**Kaya Redfell, District Seven, 18**

Tibbi must have realized how much the control bay resembles the Arena, because it's been redecorated overnight, a bunch of the furniture swapped out for the more ornately-styled stuff lying around the ship. Now it looks like an insane cross between the bridge of a starship and an antique sale. I kind of like it. And the rugs and tablecloths covering the stainless steel go a long way toward making me less twitchy when I'm there.

It throws a wrench in my perception of her. Sure, she's on our side, but every piece of evidence points to her being drop-dead cutthroat. So what am I supposed to make of her taking the time to personally drag in enough cushy chairs for all of us?

It's interesting to see the other tributes outside the context of the Hunger Games, too. Desdemona seems a lot older than she did during training, and she's jumpy, but more or less put together. Amelia is tense and stone-faced. Not standoffish, exactly, but she watches Tibbi's movements like a hawk and never sits down. She refuses to be left out of the loop regarding Ariel. Luka is hyperactive and has a habit of turning up in the strangest of places. He sits on the arm of his chair, or upside-down with his knees hooked over the back, never normally. He's cheerful half the time and desolate for the other half. None of us know what to do with him when he's sad, so we usually call his dad and wait for him to show up and drag Luka off to make cookies or something.

And me… I'm okay, I guess. I don't say much. But I pay attention.

So when Tibbi glances at her computer, jumps a little, sneaks a glance at Amelia, and scuttles out of the room, I notice.

**Kieri Fonte, District Ten stylist**

Ariel and I sit across from each other at a booth in the ice cream shop. I'm happy Tibbi picked Bluegate; it's a very high-end place, frequented by high-end people, unlikely to be noisy. I don't think Ariel would take noise well.

He's tense, but otherwise handling himself, staring at the table and dolefully eating an ice cream cone with a spoon for reasons I don't bother attempting to learn. I'm just happy he's getting the calories.

Ariel freezes and sucks in a breath. It's quiet, but still enough to make the people at the table near ours glance up.

"What?" I whisper.

He bites his lip and shakes his head, swallowing hard. His skin has that sickly, ashen shade again, visible even under the makeup.

"Something I should be worried about?"

"I-I recognize someone, okay? Forget it."

"How do you…? Oh."

He gives me a _now you're getting it _look.

I take it back: going to a place full of important politicians was _not _a good idea.

"Um… sorry?" I say weakly.

Ariel sighs. "Thank you. I'm sure…" He trails off, wide-eyed, going even paler than before.

"What?"

"She– She's coming over here, oh, god, I–" He twists in his seat like he's going to run away. I reach across the table and grab his arm. I don't have much leverage, but I'm pretty strong, he's skinny, and it's enough to hold him in place. A scoop of his ice cream falls to the table.

I can feel his pulse skyrocket through at least two layers of clothing and I immediately feel guilty. "Sorry," I say as quietly as I can, letting go of him once I'm sure he's not going to do anything impulsive. "Just… it's okay."

People glance at us again. Their gaze lingers longer. A woman with pale blue hair sweeps past our table to the one behind us. Ariel closes his eyes and shies away from her as she passes. To my dismay, she starts talking to the person right behind him.

"We can leave?" I offer quietly.

"No. Tib– I mean, s-she's coming, right?"

I glance at the computer around my forearm. "Um… she should be. And, um, she wants to talk to you?"

"What?"

I unroll the computer and hand it to him, the chat with Tibbi open. She assures me the connection is secure. I guess we'll find out.

Ariel pokes at the computer hesitantly. It seems to distract him from the blue-haired woman, at least, although he flinches at a particularly loud cackle from behind him.

"Oh. She still wants the code," he mutters.

"Up to you."

He looks up at me. "I'm scared to say no," he says, his tone just the tiniest bit sardonic, making it clear that I'm supposed to catch the double entendre and feel guilty. I do.

"I…"

"Well, let's see what she says." He jabs at the letters: N-O.

There's a pause. Ariel bites his lip.

My heart sinks. "What did she…?"

"She's asking again. Making the logical argument. Well, _I'm _being logical." He types out another refusal.

I poke at my milkshake. I _know _Tibbi's right, but I'm mad at her anyway.

"Hmm, now the appeal to my better nature," he mutters. "If I ever had one, it's gone now."

"I'm sure that's not true–"

The look he gives me makes me wonder. He's calm, but somehow I sense the total lack of mercy for the people around him, except maybe me. Maybe. It finally sinks in that he's very, very ready to drop a nuclear bomb on a crowded city. Maybe he's not just putting up a front of strength; he's putting up one of sanity.

"Um," I say.

Ariel's face goes blank. "And now the ultimatum."

"Did she really-?"

"She really did." He tosses the computer back at me. I read Tibbi's last message.

_I'm sorry to do this, but I need that code. I'm not sending anyone in until I have it._

"Not sending anyone in?" I protest. "I thought there were already people here."

"I guess not." His expression is the kind of calm that usually means a table is about to get flipped. "So what do I say to that?"

"I…"

"You know her better. If I tell her, will she really help me? Or let me take the fall? Again? And you with me, depending on how this plays out?"

A blue figure floats into my peripheral vision and my heart sinks. The woman.

"Hi," she beams. "I'm so sorry to intrude, but I just had to tell you. Do you know who your voice sounds _exactly _like? Ariel Sevasti!"

I don't think Ariel is breathing. He stares right through the woman.

Her smile gets even wider. "Oh, my, and you have the same eyes, too! Such bright green! I knew that would be a new trend."

I wince. I knew I should've given him colored contacts, but I assumed he wouldn't tolerate it. Now what am I supposed to do? It's only a matter of time before–

"Get away from me," Ariel hisses.

… Before something like that happens.

The woman frowns, squinting and leaning in closer. "That's what _he _said! Er, not that I met him, I just–"

Ariel looks up at me. I expect anger or something like that, but it's more along the lines of an apology. It makes more sense when his fist snaps into the woman's face.

Oh, dear.

She stumbles backward with a yell, clutching a bloody nose, knocking over a table and sending glasses of milkshake shattering and splattering across the floor. Everyone in the ice cream shop stares. A few jump to their feet.

Time to go.

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

Tibbi looks shifty.

"What are you doing?" I ask. It's not exactly an accusation, but it's not exactly _not _an accusation, either.

She jumps, almost drops her computer, and glances up and down the narrow hallway like she's wondering whether anyone else has snuck up on her. "Oh, er. Well."

"Something about Ariel?"

"Er."

"Asking him for the code again?"

"Yes."

"Did he give it to you?"

"No."

"Are you getting him out anyway?"

Tibbi rubs the back of her neck uncomfortably and I swear my temperature goes up ten degrees.

"I'll take that as a no," I say, reminding myself that I am a calm, compassionate person and not a needlessly aggressive one, dammit. "Why not?"

"I just lost contact."

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

I shouldn't have done that. I should _not _have done that.

I mean, morally speaking, I had every right to do that and much more. Tactically, though? No. I give Kieri a _now what? _look.

Her answer is unspoken but clear: run.

We hightail it out of the ice cream shop, Capitol politicians gaping after us. I spot another one I've been _acquainted_ with and almost trip over my own feet, but Kieri grabs me and I make it out the door.

Already too much confrontation, though. Refusing Tibbi. The punch. I'm nauseous and trembling and I have to fight to keep track of what's going on.

"This way."

I follow Kieri down an empty side street, between the side of the ice cream shop and whatever store is next door. It's grungy and sketchy, as Capitol streets go, and I don't think it's intended for pedestrians. Probably deliveries and stuff like that.

Keeping Kieri's pace is infuriating. She's really trying, I know, but the fact remains that she's a short, plumpish woman in heels and I'm a tall teenager and I would _really _like to be sprinting for all I'm worth right now because the blue-haired woman is coming after us. Fast. I think she mentioned being a star athlete when she was younger. I tuned it out as her trying to impress me, but it looks like she was telling the truth after all.

They do try to impress me. It's fucking weird. Like they think there's the slightest possibility of me not hating them with every fiber of my being, any actual chance I'd ever _want _them.

She pauses to yell at her two companions, who are dithering around where our street meets the main road. Both of them come running, and the woman charges at us again. Great. If she touches me, I'm killing her. Somehow.

Kieri is already winded and the woman is closing in. "God, Tibbi, where _are _you?" Kieri gasps, seemingly to herself, then turns to me. "Can you fight her?"

"No." I tried once. Didn't work.

"Damn. Well–"

Sirens. From nowhere, deafeningly loud, not like a vehicle. Like an air raid.

My knees buckle from under me. My vision is dotted with grey ash falling like snow. I smell blood and monsters and something else, a mix of gunpowder and lab chemicals. I feel Luther's hand on my jaw, her thumbnail jabbing into my skin, the other firing a gun past my head to call the monsters in, or maybe it's Amaris, or–

"–Get up, dammit! I mean, sorry, I-I… Ariel? _Please _get up, we need to–"

I'm curled up on the ground, the side of my face in an oily puddle, because of fucking course it is. Kieri is trying and failing spectacularly to haul me to my feet. I lift my head to see the blue-haired woman hesitating maybe twenty yards away, looking back toward the main road.

I scramble to my feet dizzily and Kieri pulls me away. "Oh, dear," she mutters.

"What's going on."

"Oh, _dear. _I… I don't… oh, dear._"_

The blue-haired woman retreats to her companions. I don't think they actually had any interest in chasing us. It's only a matter of time until there are Peacekeepers on our tail, though, and I really don't believe that between the two of us we're not carrying any trackers. For all I know they microchipped me like a fucking dog.

"Where are we going?" I ask, ducking after her into an even sketchier alley. Awesome. Just where I want to be right now.

"Um…"

I want to bang my head against the wall. "You have got to be kidding me."

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

Tibbi hurries back into the control room. I hurry right after her. "What's going on?"

"Good question," she says without turning. "I'll let you know as soon as I figure that out."

Well, that's not promising. I want to interrogate her more, but I know I shouldn't distract her. The other tributes glance up as she starts rapping out orders.

"Sciella, find Clavius. Marsin, contact whoever's the highest rank we've got in the Peacekeepers and connect them to me. Everyone in engineering, get the hovercraft ready to move fast. And could someone figure out how many Peacekeeper craft are left in the Capitol?"

People scatter in every direction. Tibbi wriggles between them and boots up a screen on the wall. She hits a few buttons and brings up what I recognize as a map of the Capitol. A white dot blinks on a small back road.

"Ariel," she explains, keeping her eyes on the keyboard. "They left the tracker from the Games in his arm."

"So they'll catch him."

"They _would. _But when they try to track him, they're seeing this." She punches a key and the dot moves to the other side of the city. "Ta-da."

_Bing._

_Bingbingbing._

_Bingbing. Bingbingbing._

Tibbi's communicator goes off again and again. She pulls it from her belt, frowning, and glances at the screen. Her face somehow gets paler despite the chalky white makeup coating it.

"What?" I ask.

Tibbi makes a little choking noise.

"Tibbi, what happened?"

"Deyna," she gasps. "Deyna, what the _hell?"_


	69. Power Grab

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

I'm not sure what's going on, but a lot of important-looking people are running around looking tense, so it's probably something big. I duck and sidestep my way through the control room—the last thing I want is someone tripping over me; I feel in-the-way enough as it is—until I'm close enough to overhear the conversation at the main console.

"Could we get in and out before any of them intercept us?" Tibbi asks a man in a Peacekeeper uniform.

"No way to be sure. I doubt they'd be willing to start a firefight over the city, though."

Tibbi looks doubtful. "The government won't care about casualties if it's already lost the citizens' loyalty."

"There _is _no government right now. Half the highest-ranking Peacekeepers are from the Capitol; they've got family there. They'll let us get away before they risk burning the place down. And they might not know whose side we're on, so if we're lucky we can drop the visibility shields and not get shot at."

"Okay," Tibbi decides. "We'll do it. Who wants to grab them?"

Predictably, Amelia all but teleports into their conversation. "Do you mean that literally?"

"Er… that was the best plan I had, yes. We just drop a ladder and snatch them. Buccaneer-style. Arrr," Tibbi growls, making an unconvincing pirate face. "Good?"

"I… guess… so?" Amelia says weakly. "Well, can I do it?"

"I don't know if that's–"

"Anyone else is going to have to carry Ariel up the ladder kicking and screaming," she points out. "Did you ever make contact again to tell them what's going on?"

"Er… no. Networks were all shut down after Deyna killed Fife. It'll be a fun little surprise for them."

Kaya half-raises her hand. "So, uh, I'm only half-clear on what's going on here, but what about Deyna?"

"Almost certainly dead," Tibbi says with a matter-of-fact shrug. Is she concealing feelings about it? I honestly can't tell.

**Kieri Fonte, District Ten stylist**

Another distant explosion echoes off the buildings.

"Ooh," I say worriedly. "Ooh, dearie."

Ariel squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his temples, leaning against the stained bricks of the alley.

"You okay?"

"Oh, yes, perfect," he spits, tearing his wig off and throwing it on the ground. The makeup is the next to go, scrubbed off onto his sleeve. It's irrational, but I sort of understand why he's doing it.

"Thought I'd ask," I say helplessly. Honestly, it's all I can do to keep myself together, not to mention him. I knew things like this could happen—guns and bombs and all—but not _here. _Not where I am, and all my friends.

Only my friends aren't here anymore. They all left with Tibbi. She told me to stay behind for in case she needed me here. I did it, but only because I wasn't brave enough to tell her no, not because I thought I could handle something like this. Whatever _this _is.

And I'm _certainly _not qualified to handle something like Ariel. He needs a therapist. A parent. Maybe a doctor. Possibly an exorcist. Definitely clergy of some sort.

Ariel sighs. "What's going on?"

"I don't know. There's still no network," I say, glancing at my computer to see if that state of affairs has changed. It hasn't.

_Bang. Bangbangbang._

I spin around in disbelief, squinting at the mouth of the alley. Nothing moves, aside from the slow drift of white fog. But that sounded a whole lot like gunshots. Could people really be shooting?

Apparently it was indeed gunshots, because Ariel is halfway to the ground again, a hand clapped over his own mouth.

"Oh, no. Um, it's okay. There, there," I say, patting his shoulder at arm's length with one finger. He smacks my hand away. "Sorry. Darn it all."

What _is _that fog? Smoke? Some kind of gas?

"How long do we keep doing this?" Ariel asks defeatedly.

"Huh?"

"Because I really… I don't know. Are we really going to get out of here? Soon?" His eyes dart around unsettlingly, like he's looking for a weapon. "I-I don't want to get caught again."

I sidle between him and a jagged, rusty piece of metal on the ground and resist the urge to give him a hug. "Of course we are."

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

"Tibbi?" I say, squinting through the clouds as the hovercraft swoops over a mountaintop and the Capitol comes into sight.

"Yes?"

"Are those explosions?"

"Might be."

"Are they, though?"

"… Yes."

I lick my lips nervously. "Okay. And that's… who's fighting who, exactly?"

"Hard to say. The Vice President will go for a power grab, certainly, but so will the Peacekeeper generals from Two, and I wouldn't be surprised to see half of Tactics slinking around out there."

I have no idea what that last one is, but finding out isn't at the top of my priority list. "What do we do?"

"Find Ariel first, then decide if there's anyone we should blow up, I guess?"

"Oh, good."

**Kieri Fonte, District Ten stylist**

Something huge blots out the sky. Ariel collapses for the second time in as many minutes, which I guess is better than him going for anything sharp.

"Oh, my," I say weakly, looking up to see the underbelly of a hovercraft. Okay. This is… certainly some sort of event, about which I feel some kind of way, presumably. Are we being saved? Arrested? Who knows? Not me. No one ever tells me these things.

Someone taps my shoulder. I whirl around to find myself looking up at a tall blonde girl. She needs to get her roots done.

"Hello. Start climbing," she says, pointing at a ladder leading up to a hovercraft. "I'll get Ariel."

Amelia Bailey, I realize. Which means that's Tibbi's hovercraft. She came after all.

More gunshots echo from the end of the alley, and this time I see people on the street, slinking through the white fog in gas masks. The fog is drifting toward us and the figures' stride is unsettling and predatory. And familiar. It almost reminds me of… that awful Five girl?

I gulp and start climbing.

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

Ariel is on the ground, cowering against the wall with his face hidden. I don't have to see his expression to know he's panicking. He thinks it's a Peacekeeper craft, I guess, and is expecting to be seized and frogmarched into some fresh circle of hell. I don't have much time—the people on the street have noticed the hovercraft, and it won't be long before they see us—but I don't want to scare him if I can help it.

I know better than to touch him. "Ariel?" I say.

No response.

"Ariel, it's me. Amelia. Tibbi came."

He tenses and slowly looks up, fixing me with huge green eyes. I'm not sure what I'm expecting when he recognizes me. Disbelief? Happiness? Maybe there was _one _daydream involving him throwing himself, sobbing, into my arms–

Ariel snaps into a posture remarkably reminiscent of a scared, angry housecat. "What the fuck?" he spits.

Oh.

"What the _fuck?" _he repeats.

"I… what? Look, I've spent this whole time trying to get her to–"

He staggers to his feet and kicks the wall. "Let's go so I can yell at her. And then cry. And sleep. Maybe cry in my sleep if I'm really feeling wild."

So neither Luther nor the Capitol managed to beat the… whatever that is out of him. Good to know.

"Does she still want the nuke code?"

"Uh, I think so?" I say, a little guiltily even though I don't see how it's my fault.

Ariel's eyes narrow, and all at once there's something vicious in them. "Good."

Hmm.

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

"Are they in?" Tibbi snaps into a speaker.

"Yep. Bay doors closed."

She gestures at a guy on another control panel. The hovercraft accelerates fast enough to pin me to my chair. Luka, who was balanced on the arm of his, goes toppling headfirst onto the floor.

"Ow," he mutters.

"Sorry," Tibbi says distractedly.

"What? Oh, no, I shouldn't have been–"

She turns away. I can tell from Luka's face that he takes it to mean she's mad at him, even though I know she's just too busy to dance around his tendency to blame himself for everything he possibly can. Poor guy. Was he like that before the Games, I wonder?

"I hope someone told our families that was gonna happen," I remark quietly in Kaya's general direction.

"Apparently the bedrooms and stuff are engineered to not feel most of it," she says. "Attached to the hull by shock absorbers."

"Oh."

She smiles wryly. "Inspired the Arena design, I'm told."

"… Oh."

The control bay goes dead silent. Not the scared kind of silent. More the everyone-pretend-to-be-really-interested-in-the-ceiling kind, when something has to be dealt with and no one wants to deal with it.

"Oh, boy," Kaya mutters. "Here we go."

Tibbi's expression concurs. I don't realize what's happening until a tall boy in a nice suit stalks past my chair, Amelia right behind him. Ariel, back from the dead. A plump woman sidles in after them. She's trying to look inconspicuous, but her eyebrows are flashing rainbow colors.

"You must be Tibbi," Ariel says. He's the kind of calm people get when they're too far gone to yell.

"… Yes," Tibbi says after a moment, although from the look on her face she's tempted to lie.

Ariel takes a step forward. "How nice to finally meet in person," he goes on in the same serene tone, almost a purr, like in his interview. There's no blatant anger in his voice, his hands aren't in fists, but everything else about his body language is alarmingly aggressive. Amelia's not backing him up, I realize; she's staying close enough to hold him back if necessary.

"I… Look, I know there's really nothing I can say…"

Another step toward her. "I'd love to hear you try, though."

"Well, I–"

"Did you choose Luther, too? To buy time? Keep everyone entertained?"

"That was certainly not something I had in mind–"

"I get it, you didn't plan it from the start," he says understandingly. He's practically pinning her to the console. "You just took the opportunity when you saw it, didn't you?"

"To stop anyone else from dying? Yes," Tibbi snaps.

Ariel rears back like he's been shocked. His anger collapses into fear in a split second. "_No_ one else died?"

Next to me, Luka flinches.

Tibbi blinks. "What?"

"After I fell in? I-I saw the replays, though, s-she–" Ariel staggers back against Amelia. He looks like he'd turn and run if she weren't in the way.

Tibbi sucks in a breath as she realizes what she implied. "Oh, no, Luther's dead."

"Dead like Carmen, or dead like me?" Ariel asks, a little hysterically, his eyes darting around like he expects Luther to pop up from behind a chair and yell _boo_. I think Amelia is supporting half his body weight. "Because I-I saw them play that little bullshit memorial thing for me, too–"

"Dead for real. Promise."

"Are you _sure?_"

"Positive. One hundred percent." Tibbi sounds almost sympathetic now, probably because Ariel went from menacing to hyperventilating in two seconds flat. "The explosion was real."

He went to Amelia of his own accord, but all at once he seems to decide that her touch is unacceptable and shakes her off, flipping back to anger just as quickly as the first mood swing. I'm getting whiplash just watching him.

"So she died in a split second," he says. "After all that–"

"And you didn't die at all," Tibbi points out. "So really, I think you still–"

Ariel takes a swing at her, but Amelia catches his elbow before his fist gets halfway there. He tries to pull free. It's not happening. He doesn't react aside from gritting his teeth, but I can practically see the meltdown boiling up. I want to leave before it happens, but drawing attention to myself is at the bottom of my to-do list right now. Better to hunker down and let this blow over and have nothing to do with me.

Tibbi stares at him, her gold eyes almost disturbingly emotionless. "I did the best I could," she enunciates.

"You let her–"

"Keep the audience's attention for thirty-six hours with no deaths. And quite possibly spark the riots that let us take the Arena."

"Thirty-six hours," Ariel repeats dazedly. "Is that really all it was?"

"Give or take. And I'm so, so sorry you had to go through that," Tibbi says, unblinking. "Really. But I think that what I did was the right thing to do."

I can see the moment when he gives up and accepts it. His shoulders slump and he swallows hard. "… Okay," he says, his voice hollow.

Tibbi looks confused.

"I-I get it, okay? I guess… I guess that was the right thing. Fucking worth it." He spins around to glare at Luka, Kaya, and me, making all of us jump. "You're all very welcome. Glad I could help."

"Er… thank you?" Luka squeaks.

Ariel stares at him for a second, like he's trying to decide how to react, then gives up and turns back to Tibbi and does the instantaneous-mood-swing thing yet again. "Afterwards, though," he accuses. "You would've left me there if everything hadn't gone to hell."

"Absolutely not. I wasn't prepared to trade multiple lives for yours, no, but if I could've–"

"But you could've done _something," _ he cries. "I mean, at least… Y-You didn't have to let them…"

Tibbi is poised halfway between sympathy and frustration. "Well, that's just not tr–"

Ariel turns and walks out. Fast. I think he's crying.

"… Okay, bye," Tibbi says weakly.

Amelia shoots her a dirty look and follows Ariel out of the control bay. The rest of us, engineers and Gamemakers included, keep our eyes firmly on our shoes.

Tibbi sucks in a breath. "Oh, for fuck's sake," she hisses.

"What?" the man in white asks.

"He still didn't give us the code."


	70. Snickerdoodles

**Some angst to go with the angst?**

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

Ariel falls into step next to me as I leave the command bay. He doesn't even ask where we're going. My first, obvious thought is my room, but… maybe not. I lead him to an empty lounge instead, settling on one end of a couch. He sits on it too, not right next to me, but not squeezing away from me, either.

"Now what?" he asks blankly.

"Up to you."

"I can't exactly leave," he muses. "Not that I've got anywhere to be. But what about after all of this is over?"

"I don't think any of us know what we'll do when this is over."

"But most of us aren't famous across Panem for getting tortured and murdered on national television. That could put a damper on my social life and career prospects."

He says it so calmly. It's _creepy. _Everything about him, his voice, his body language, is disconcerting. His appearance was always dancing along the edge of the uncanny valley, and it's worse than ever now. Did they do cosmetic surgery on him, on top of the herculean effort it must've taken to get him back to something approaching normal? One way or the other, being near him feels almost dangerous.

"True," I finally say.

Ariel frowns at a coffee table for a few seconds. "Can I ask you something?" he says out of nowhere.

"Go ahead."

"Have you seen a really tall, skinny woman around?"

I mentally run through everyone I recognize on the ship. The only tall, skinny woman who comes to mind is Kaya's mother, but I doubt Ariel means her; the wheelchair is sort of her most salient-at-a-glance physical trait. Not for long, though, the medic promised.

Another thing to make me wonder. She's lived for years with a condition that can apparently be fixed in hours in the clinic of a hovercraft. And we live so nicely in District One. How hard would it be for the Capitol to actually take care of the citizens of Panem? I'm grateful for my transition surgeries, but if they can make my body look how I want, why couldn't they help Kaya's mother?

"Have you?" Ariel asks in a whisper.

"I… don't think so?"

"She's really skinny. Dressed in black. Long coat. Short hair."

My heart sinks. "You're describing Luther."

He doesn't just flinch at the name; he closes his eyes and shudders, shrinking into the corner of the couch. "I know."

"She's not here, Ariel. She's dead."

His eyes glint crazily. "You saw her die? Saw a body?"

"Well, no, but–"

"Who did?"

"In person? Viss, I guess. But she's dead, too. Ariel, if you're seeing Luther, I promise it's not real."

He bites his lip. "So I'm losing it."

"No. It's just… a thing that happens." Which is true, but I'm not actually sure he's not losing it.

"You'd know?"

"To a very minor extent. It's textbook trauma. Give yourself time."

He nods, swallows hard, and suddenly scoots over to me, curling up against my side and tucking his head under my chin. I put my arms around him experimentally. He tenses, then relaxes.

It feels like I'm hugging a bundle of cloth. How many layers can he possibly be wearing? And if he's that overdressed and looks normal, how skinny must he be? I thought his face looked gaunt, but figured it was just makeup. I have to remind myself that this is the same person I kissed and left behind in the laboratory not so long ago. He's like a vengeful shade of himself.

"Did they not feed you?" I ask.

"They did. More or less. But my appetite's a bit fucked, believe it or not."

"Please try to eat."

"I'll throw up," he says flatly. "Experimentally proven."

"Because they didn't fix the radiation poisoning, or because of… something psychosomatic?"

I expect him to get twitchy again, but he goes limp. "Wait. You know about that? The plutonium? I know you know she… _got _me, but–"

"It was, um, hard to miss hearing about some of the specifics."

"Did you see any of it?"

"No. I thought you wouldn't want me to."

"Thank you."

"And I couldn't," I add for honesty's sake. "I mean, I… There was a clip of her coming toward you. I couldn't watch anymore."

He shrugs. "Thanks for that, too. Because plenty of people loved it. When are we bombing them, anyway?"

"Enough didn't to cause a revolt."

"Nice," he says with a humorless laugh. "Glad to know I was so helpful. Now, _when are we bombing them?_"

"I mean, they–"

"The password," he mutters into my shoulder. "It's, uh, 'sorry Amelia'. Spoken. Doesn't have to be my voice. Because I thought… uh, I sort of meant to…"

"_What?"_

"Don't act so surprised. I told you I'd rather die than let them have me." His voice is light, like he's delivering witty jab. He's smiling. "But here I am. Wild, huh? How that worked out."

"Um…"

He pulls away from me abruptly. "I want a shower."

"Okay."

"And clothes that aren't these."

"Okay."

"And a kiss."

"O– Wait, really?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Really. Just a little one. You won't traumatize me, I promise."

I hesitate. I'm frightened. I really am. Not that he'll _hurt _me, just… I don't know.

"Please?" he says quietly.

I can't argue with that. I lean in and give him the quickest, chastest peck on the lips I can.

Ariel smiles and it seems real. "See, I think that went very well," he says.

Then he covers his mouth, shudders like he's going to throw up, and starts to cry.

**Kieri Fonte, District Ten Stylist**

The little ginger kid cocks his head. "So you just… left? You didn't have anyone…?"

"Most of my friends were already with Tibbi."

"No family, though?"

I shrug. "None that I was close to."

His face falls. "Oh. I mean, it's good that you didn't have to leave anyone behind, that would've sucked. But it also sucks that you were alone."

The questions could be taken as rude, but that's obviously not his intent, and I'm sort of touched that he cares so much. "I had my job to keep me busy. Although it was… starting to get to me a bit."

"The business?"

"No, the styling tributes, and… other people."

"Other people?" he asks innocently.

I hem and haw a bit. "People like Ariel," I say, hoping that will satisfy him.

No such luck. "Other tributes who're s'posed to be dead, you mean? Are there more?"

Yes, actually, although not from this round of Games. Fondly known as 'the secret menu'. Something tells me Luka is better off not knowing. Not to mention Ariel; I don't like to think about how he'd react to the phrase.

"Just, other people in the Capitol," I say. "For parties and stuff."

Luka frowns. "Okay."

"Mhm."

"I like your eyebrows. Very… bright."

"Thank you."

"Have you met my dad?"

I blink. "What?"

"I dunno. I think you'd get along."

Now he's giving me full-on puppy-dog eyes and I swear he's doing it on purpose. Even worse, it's working. I can't say no. He's too tiny and adorable.

"I guess if you want to introduce us–"

"I do," he grins, jumping to his feet and bounding out into the hallway. "C'mon, I think he's making snickerdoodles for everybody."

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

I definitely still feel some kind of way about Amelia. I just don't know what that way is.

I like her. I remember being attracted to her. But I think the _damn-I'd-hit-that _machinery in my brain is broken, possibly beyond repair. Now she's just… I don't know. Consciously, I trust her. I know perfectly well that she's not going to do anything to me. But my lizard brain doesn't know that, and no matter how hard I fight it, my stomach twists when she gets too close, just like it does with everyone else. Sometimes I want her to hug me more than anything. But then all at once my thoughts take a wrong turn and my split-second impulses are… scary. It's almost comforting to know how easily she can overpower me, because I don't trust myself not to do anything completely, violently insane, so it's good that at least I probably won't hurt her if and when it happens. Probably.

I should tell her. I owe her that. But I think she already knows. I can tell she cares, but every time I feel something in me twist, I see her fighting instincts kick in. Maybe just to protect me from myself. But she knows damn well I'm a gory disaster waiting to happen and it's messing with her.

I'll be betraying her if I don't try really fucking hard to pull myself together. So I feel beyond guilty when I sneak away from her the first chance I get and run down to the medical bay.

I don't have long. She only went down the hall to talk to Kaya's friend and try to borrow some clothes for me, and I think she knows me well enough to guess where I'll go. Go figure that's the personality trait I'd hang onto: no fucking self-control. No strength. Straight to the easy way out.

The medical bay is empty. I hurtle in and skid across the room, stupid goddamn dress shoes slipping on the smooth floor, and almost knock over a few IV stands. There's an open door in the back, to a dark little room lined with shelves of glistening bottles.

Something's moving in there.

There's an instant shot of adrenaline and I tense, ready to fight or run. Not that I can do either in this stupid fucking suit. I hate wearing it, but not quite as much as I'd hate to take it off.

It can't be a person in there. They'd turn the light on. I doubt any animals just wandered onto the Gamemaker hovercraft. So what did I just hear?

Nothing, probably. It's all in my head. And I've got a few minutes, tops, to get the hell over it before Amelia comes after me, and if I'm stopped this close to the morphling, I'm going to scream.

I take a step toward the back room and freeze again. Something just moved. I _know _I saw it. Something tall and black.

Not real.

I run into the back room and dive for the refrigerated racks of bottles.

"Poor thing," a low female voice whispers.

Not real. Textbook trauma. And there's the morphling.

A hand caresses my shoulder and I lash out reflexively, almost flinging the bottle across the room.

Not real.

There's a drawer of needles packaged in plastic. I rip one out with my teeth, stab it through the foil at the top of the bottle, and draw in as much as I can get. I spill a good bit but there are at least three cc's. Maybe a lot more, but that's just fine with me. Whatever happens, happens.

"Reduced to this, hmm?" her voice whispers in my ear.

It's not real but I feel her breath. That chemical smell makes me gag.

"It's so addictive. What will you do when they stop you and you need more? You'll do anything for it," she purrs. "Won't you?"

I tear my jacket off, roll my sleeve up, and stab the needle into the crook of my elbow. I don't feel the pain. For a second I'm hyperaware of my own heartbeat. Luther's teeth glisten. Then I sink to my knees, and she's gone, and I'm gone, too.

Sorry, Amelia.


	71. Promise

**Kaya Redfell, District Seven, 18**

To absolutely no one's surprise, things get contentious.

"Look, I told you the password he told me–"

"Which is great. I really do appreciate that," Tibbi says without looking up from the console. "But the thing is, the way he wired it, the engineers say it just makes the switch go live."

"So?"

"So, if we want that thing detonating anywhere other than the hovercraft, we're going to need a little more to go on."

Amelia frowns. "You can't flip the switch remotely?"

"We _could _do that, and hope he set it up sensibly, so we won't either set it off while we're trying to wire it or leave it sitting there all pretty and unexploded on the mansion's front stoop. Do you want to stake the fate of Panem on the assumption that Ariel did something the normal way?"

"… Uh," Amelia says.

"Exactly. So I have to ask him."

"To do what? Work on the bomb? Do you honestly think he'll willingly come into the same room as a chunk of plutonium?"

"Oh," Tibbi says, her face falling like she hadn't thought of that. How did she _not, _I can't help wondering? I barely know what happened and I still saw that problem right away.

"Maybe if the engineers tell me what to ask him?" Amelia suggests.

"Ask who? Me?"

The control bay goes silent. Again. I swear he's doing it on purpose at this point.

Ariel prowls in. He seems to have lost his jacket and looks a little dizzy, but more… bloodthirsty than before. Desdemona shoots me an _I'm out _look and darts around him to the hallway. Luka seems to be considering the same, and I don't blame him. Round one was bad enough. I really don't want to see round two of Ariel's maybe-insanity versus Tibbi's spectacular lack of social skills.

Right on cue, Tibbi looks him up and down. It's clearly an appraisal, nothing lecherous, but he straight-up snarls, teeth out like a wild animal. Tibbi gulps. "I was told you were unconscious in the medical bay."

"I woke up."

"But you seem a little, er… I mean, they just let you walk out?"

The look Ariel gives her could freeze vodka. "They didn't want me to. But I've noticed that people here tend to hesitate before physically restraining me. I really don't like it, you see."

"Ah," Tibbi says weakly.

Ariel waves her off. "Forget it. Now, about the bomb. How can I help?"

"Er, you don't have to–"

"But I _want _to."

Amelia frowns. "Ariel–"

"I'll be fine."

"If you insist," Tibbi says, suddenly cheerful.

I'm not sure how I feel about it. My first thought is, are we sure we want to put our lives in his hands? I can see him shaking from here. I don't trust him not to drop a tool or cross the wrong wires by accident. I'm not so sure he won't do it on purpose, either.

No, I decide. That won't happen. He'd happily murder at least a few people on the hovercraft—I'm not sure whether or not I'm one of them, or Luka—but he'd much, much rather nuke the Capitol.

"You have it onboard?" he asks, his voice suddenly light, almost professional.

"Yes."

"I can start whenever you like," he says with a businesslike nod. "As long as you've got a standard set of tools for me, I can modify it to a conventional type in, mm, forty-eight hours. Although I'd need lots of caffeine if you want it that fast. Or amphetamines. MDMA works in a pinch, but it makes me a little, ah–"

"No," Amelia says flatly.

"It _would _be nice to have the bomb ready that soon–" Tibbi muses.

Amelia glares. "_No._"

"Fine. Three days. Deal?"

"Plenty of time," Ariel says cheerfully before Amelia can answer. "Now, if someone could show me where the lab is–"

"Wait."

There's a collective beat of silence as everyone realizes that Luka, of all people, has spoken up.

Ariel blinks. "What?"

"I mean… w-we're not actually _doing _this, are we?" Luka asks in a small voice, glancing from me to Amelia like he's hoping for backup. "Bombing the Capitol? That's a bluff. Right?"

There's a split-second look in Ariel's eyes that I recognize as the _real _crazy. Most of what he's doing is a performance; for all he's been through, he's still the biggest drama queen on the planet. The genuine fear and hatred is all bottled up, under pressure and simmering away, but under his control for now. Except that moment where it shows and I know that no matter how good a show he's putting on, we're not dealing with a stable, rational person here. Luka's eyes widen and I know he sees it too. Amelia doesn't want to. The person he used to be is never, ever coming back.

"I think we are," Ariel says slowly, like he's not sure he's comprehending what Luka is saying.

"But there's no way you won't kill innocent people. Avoxes. And people like Kieri, and… and like you, who were there…"

"People like me will consider their sacrifice worthwhile, I promise."

"You don't know that."

Ariel puts his hands on the arms of Luka's chair and leans down to get right in his face. The just-barely-restrained rage radiating from him is burning me all the way over here. "I really think I do."

Luka gulps, but meets his eyes. "No, you don't. You dunno for sure everyone stuck there would rather die, okay?"

Ariel smiles, but his nails dig into the chair. "Oh well," he says lightly. "Casualties of war."

"You wanna live your life knowing you killed thousand of people who didn't deserve it?" Luka protests. "Fuckin' _burned _people like that thing did to Viss?"

"That," Ariel hisses, his eyes glittering, "is _exactly _what I want to do."

Luka looks like he's going to cry. Ariel is visibly contemplating murder, on top of the genocide that's already on the table.

"All this bad stuff people do, all this crazy shit like the Hunger Games, it's 'cause they're scared, okay?" Luka pleads. "People aren't that bad, really, if you just make it so they're not scared. If we promise we won't hurt them–"

"Don't waste your time lecturing me about how violence works," Ariel whispers, his voice vicious enough to stop Luka cold. "It doesn't matter if you're right, okay? I don't _care._ I don't care about the collateral damage, I don't care about the precedent we're setting, I don't care about what happens next. I care that the Capitol fucking burns. So _shut up._"

"You don't get to hurt innocent people because you're hurt, that's why it never _stops, _you think the people who hurt you weren't just passing along–?"

I want to believe he's right, but I'm not sure I do. Not for all of them, anyway. Did someone hurt the Capitol elites who demanded he be pulled from the Arena? I sort of doubt it. Luther? It's a weird, weird thought. How does someone get that way? Where did all of this begin?

In any case, wrong answer. Ariel bares his teeth and draws his arm back. Luka doesn't even raise his hands to defend himself, but Amelia is there before Ariel can land the blow. Again. Her movements are too quick to follow. I blink and Ariel is wrapped in her arms. It would be like a hug, except he's spitting mad and his arms are obviously pinned behind his back.

"Sorry," Luka squeaks, rubbing his neck.

Ariel growls something unintelligible but presumably profane into Amelia's shoulder.

Tibbi raises a hand. "Okay, well, er. About the bomb…?"

Amelia whirls on her, still holding Ariel, who looks like he's seriously considering biting her and making a break for it to take another shot at Luka. For a second I think she's going to yell, but she just takes a deep breath. "We'll get back to you about the bomb, okay?"

"Fine."

"Can we at least _consider _some other options?" Luka says weakly as Amelia half-carries, half-wrestles Ariel out the door.

Tibbi rubs her temples. "Goddammit."

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

Ariel calms down the second I let him go, so suddenly it seems unnatural. "Oops," he says lightly.

"Ariel, what the fuck?" I grumble.

He shrugs. "My emotions got the better of me."

"And you're certainly entitled to have plenty of strong emotions, but maybe you could at least _try _not to hit anyone?"

"People keep hitting _me," _he scowls, crossing his arms and looking away. It's almost petulant.

"… I don't know what to say to that."

"I know," he says brightly. "So. Where's the bomb?"

"Not now."

"Yes, now. I need this over with, okay? Don't you want me to get over my trauma?"

"But–"

"I don't see how it's up to you, anyway," he says with a shrug. "I can do what I want. Hmm, and I've seen a lot of engineers coming from this way. I'll find it myself."

I follow him up the hallway. "You can do whatever you want, as long as it doesn't involve killing us all."

"I wouldn't kill you," he says matter-of-factly. Which shouldn't be romantic in the slightest, but coming from him it really does sound thoughtful.

"Um, thank you."

There's a moment of silence.

Ariel licks his lips and looks away. "Sorry."

"What?"

"For all of that. In the bridge."

"It's okay."

He shakes his head. "This isn't fair to you."

"I'd say things have been considerably less fair to you."

"My bad luck, though," he shrugs. "Not yours. You shouldn't have to deal with it, and I'm… making things more difficult than they need to be, and I don't know why."

I shrug. "I'm doing what makes me happiest, under the circumstances. Which happens to be following you around and stopping you from doing anything insane." When I started talking, I intended to stop there, but it doesn't seem like enough. "You _do _know I care about you, right?"

Ariel looks away. "Um."

"Regardless of anything physical, and anything nuclear, and anything that happened since I left the lab. The actual _you._"

"That's cheesy," he mutters.

"I'm a cheesy person. But I'm sharp."

"… Was that a pun?"

"Maybe."

"Amelia, oh my _god," _he groans.

"Sorry."

Ariel half-smiles. "Don't be sorry."

"Good, because I wasn't really sorry."

"Thanks for, uh, being patient with me."

"You couldn't drive me off if you tried."

He looks up at me. "Is that a promise?"

"Yes."

"Really? Don't say yes if you don't really, _really _mean it. Please."

I think before answering, because I owe him that, and it's a hell of a significant promise to make. I get why he'd rather have no promise at all than be offered a blanket and have it torn away later.

But this is something I can do. It won't be easy. But I do have the empathy and strength to be an absolute for him, if that's what he needs, and I want to. I don't know quite what's going on between us now, but I do know he matters to me and I'm willing to work very, very hard to help him be okay.

"I mean it," I say, looking right back at him. "I promise. Not that you should go out of your way to be an ass just to see what I'll do, but–"

"Hold still."

"What?"

Ariel steps in and hugs me. He's got a surprisingly tight grip, given the state he's in, or maybe because of it. My instinct is to hug him back, but he asked me to stay still, so I do.

At first it feels stiff and strange. But eventually he relaxes, his head dropping onto my shoulder, and I realize this is the longest he's tolerated physical contact since we got him back. I think he's deliberately reacclimatizing himself.

"You smell good."

I blink. "Thank you. It's just the shampoo that was in my bathroom."

"Can you keep using it? It helps me, uh, keep knowing it's you. Which is… sort of a one-second-at-a-time thing. If that makes sense."

"Sure. And it does make sense."

"I won't freak out if you hug me back, you know."

I can't help remembering last time he said something like that, but I take his word for it. This time his self-assessment is correct. It could be my imagination, but he feels less frail than he did last night. Warmer, maybe, and more solid; he's not collapsing against me, which is encouraging. I've seen enough Hunger Games survivors to know how these things work. I can be there for him, argue for him, stay up with him all night, do my damnedest to keep him out of the morphling, all of that, but in the end he stands or falls alone. And he's not exactly standing strong, but he's not down and out yet, either.

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

I skulk back into the command bay, noting Amelia and Ariel disappearing up the hallway. Kaya's still there, impassive as ever. Luka looks shaken. I don't know what I missed, but I think I'm happy I missed it.

Luka and Kaya exchange words every now and then as Tibbi and her minions whisper to each other. I feel very out of the loop. But the word _bomb _comes up a lot, and I'm more and more uneasy with the whole situation. Maybe I should just go back to Mom's room.

Tibbi reads something on her computer. "Oh, damn," she says. "Oh, no."

"What?" a man asks.

"Find Ariel, bring him to the lab, and give him whatever he needs, amphetamines included. Deal with Amelia however you have to. I need that bomb _now."_

He nods and runs from the room. I frown. Not just because of what she said, but because of how unquestioningly he accepts it; how in the world does she get such military discipline from these people? I thought they were her friends?

Luka's eyes widen. "Tibbi," he pleads.

"You have to believe me when I tell you that there's nothing else we can do."

"Why?"

"Tactics is making a play."

I exchange glances with Kaya, but she's as clueless as I am. "What's that?" she asks.

"Remember Luther?"

"She's tough to forget," Kaya says warily. Luka just flinches.

"That's where she came from."

"Oh."

"And they're going for the Capitol's weapons."

_"__Oh."_

"So if we don't do something about it, it's going to be Luther all over again, only a thousand of her, and with the entirety of the Capitol's arsenal. And if there's anyone, anyone at all in Panem you care about, you do _not _want them in power. Their director…" She trails off, shaking her head.

Kaya gulps. "Oh."

"I don't see any way to fight them, and they're not loyal to any one District; there's nothing we can even threaten to bomb. There's no one person we can kill. The weapons complex has to go."

"So that's… that's just a military thing, right?" Luka asks.

Tibbi stares at him for a long moment, biting her lip. "Yes."

**Luka is a graphite-tipped control rod in this tortured metaphor, lol. He does his best.**


	72. Sorry

**And… this is it. Thank you very much for reading, and especially thanks to people who reviewed! It really does make my day to know the void is listening when I sling my writing out into it.**

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

I'm really fucking confused but I know two things: I can't let that bomb fall, and I can't hurt anyone about this hovercraft. So that's a bit of a catch-22, because apparently I'm the only one aboard who has a problem with nuking the biggest city in Panem.

There's a weird, nasty feeling gnawing in my chest as I slouch in my chair in the control bay. Something I'm not very familiar with, but I think I know what it is: resentment. I can _feel _everyone writing me off. I can protest as much as I want; they're not listening to me. What do I know, right? What the hell would I know about death and violence and hard decisions, not to mention hatred and forgiveness?

It's nothing new. People ignoring me, that is; it's something I came to terms with a long time ago. I'm too small to intimidate anyone and too friendly to want to in the first place, so I don't get an opinion. I could always deal with it. I never felt too strongly about anything. I care about Dad, but he doesn't need me to defend him. I don't _want _to die, but if someone cornered me in an alley with a knife and I didn't have a gun like with Amaris… oh well. It happens. Certainly never had any pride to fight for.

But for the first time, not being listened to is making me _angry. _Because I'm right. I'm absolutely, one hundred percent positive that Tibbi is trying to do something awful and unforgivable. Hundreds of thousands of people are in the crosshairs. Avoxes, people who never liked the Hunger Games but didn't do anything because they really, truly couldn't, people who never had the chance to know any better but could've been taught.

People can change so much. I don't get why everyone insists on ignoring that. Why hurt a bad person when you can turn them into a good person instead? It's a stretch to call it justice, and even then, I think mercy should overrule justice. And I think I'm _right._

Not because I'm a better person, or special, or anything. Because I was taught. Maybe you have to be five foot four and skinny in a place like District Three to see what mercy's worth. I guess to people like Tibbi it's a nice little gift to give out on a whim, but to me, it's life and death. I've looked down the barrel of a mugger's pistol. I've been pinned to the concrete with a knife to my throat when I took the wrong street by accident. I've watched helplessly as a stranger decided whether or not I got to keep breathing. And I've learned to treasure that flash of humanity in otherwise apathetic eyes, when someone decides, you know what, there's no need to kill. Not right now. Not today. No need to hurt more than you have to.

I glance at Des and Kaya and it hits me: I'm _not _the only one who thinks this is wrong.

Des looks worried. She's not sure what's going on, but she doesn't like it. She's only thirteen, though; she wouldn't dare stand up to someone like Tibbi. Young enough to still believe that adults know what they're doing.

Kaya's just resigned. I don't think she wants to see the Capitol burn, but she's accepted that a whole lot of people are going to die no matter what happens. She doesn't want to fight anymore, and I think maybe she's lost a lot of her ability to care, at least for the moment.

Amelia's preoccupied with Ariel. Ariel is completely out of his mind and I don't blame him. But I think even he would come around eventually. He just has to calm down enough to _think _about this; to realize that almost everyone about this hovercraft is from the Capitol, and none of them have done anything awful to him. Except maybe Tibbi. The point is, the Capitol isn't just a city of complete monsters.

And no one's so much as told our parents, but I don't have to ask to know Dad would be horrified at this. And he didn't bring me up to be the kind of person who stands by and watches a war crime go down. He taught me to never, ever fight unless I have to, but… I have to.

But what can I _do?_

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

Tibbi is done negotiating with me.

I guess I should've known I never had a say in this. She humored me as long as I didn't make _too _much of a nuisance of myself, but suddenly the situation is very real and there's nothing I can do about it.

I find myself relegated to the corner of the lab where I'm nice and out of the way. The engineers helping Ariel shoot me the occasional wary look, and I fight the urge to glare back. This isn't their fault. They're just doing what they're told, handing him whatever he flatly asks for, like nurses assisting a surgery.

Part of me wants to talk Ariel out of this. But I don't, because if he decides he doesn't want to fix the bomb after all, I know for a fact that she'll make him. Lock me up somewhere and put a gun to his head. Only that wouldn't be an effective threat, not against someone I know damn well is just postponing his next suicide attempt until after this is done, so she'd have to get creative.

One way or the other she's going to put hundreds of thousands of deaths on his shoulders. And he's not going to be able to take it. Maybe he doesn't realize it, but if that bomb goes off, it's going to be the death blow to his sanity and I can't save him. I'm going to spend the foreseeable future watching him nonstop, keeping him away from drugs and rope and guns and knives, but one day I'm going to get distracted and turn around and he'll be gone and I'll know immediately that he's dead, that he died alone and despising himself.

But he's calm for now. Eerily so. I almost hope to find some kind of sadistic satisfaction in his face, because then at least he's happy, but I can't. Just a drugged stupor, keeping him awake enough to work on autopilot. When was the last time he slept? Last night was a dizzying sequence of shifts from sobbing to staring at the wall to conversation to throwing things, and he was probably… occupied at night in the Capitol, and before that there was Luther. I just want him to finish the stupid goddamn bomb so he can stop taking the stupid goddamn drugs and sleep.

I don't want to tear down the Capitol anymore. I don't care if anything changes or not. I just want all of this to end, now, before anything else happens.

But I can't stop it.

**Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17**

I don't actually want to do this.

But I'm not acting according to what I do and don't want. They hurt me so, so badly, therefore I will do everything in my power to destroy them. It just… follows. It doesn't make sense otherwise. I'm the bullet in the gun they pointed at their own head and pulled the trigger. At this point, determinism reigns.

Determinism is something Tibbi emphasized. The Capitol's signal jammers are powerful enough to prevent a remote detonation, so we'll be doing things the old-fashioned way, with an altimeter. Once we launch, it's all been set in motion, with no way to stop it.

It's none of my concern.

The cocktail of drugs in my system puts me in a peculiar mood. Numb, but not pleasantly so. Just cold. I smile a little when I pull the shielding aside to reveal the plutonium core. I'm not scared of it; if anything, I'm fond of it, in some weird way. Like an old friend. _Ah, we meet again. How will it play out this time?_

According to the laws of physics, as it turns out, just like it did last time. There's no real mystery. No malice, no space for intent at all. This switch is connected to this transistor, which sends a signal to the timekeeper circuit. It runs through thirty macrocycles, then triggers another assembly that runs some diagnostics and removes the safeties if everything comes back right. Thirty more cycles, the delay just to make sure we have plenty of time to get away even if something goes wrong. The altitude monitor goes live. Air pressure and radar are monitored. When both confirm, within a margin of error, that the bomb is within four hundred meters of the ground, a magnesium fuse is sparked and lights the first thermal sub-detonation.

And then the fancy electronics stuff is over. The first chain reaction begins: conventional explosives compress plutonium shock fuel. Sleeve is launched over core faster than the speed of sound, ensuring a near-perfect explosion, no gradual fizzle. About ninety-two percent of all the plutonium Tibbi's people could find—five point four two eight two kilograms—is converted to five hundred petajoules of explosive energy, gamma radiation excepted.

There's very little room for negotiation.

It's too late, anyway. The chain reaction has already started. It started when they pulled me from the Arena, or maybe when they drew my name from the Reaping Ball, or when Tibbi decided a revolution was in order, or when she was born, or when her parents met, or…

Always, really. It's always been an empirical fact that one day, the Capitol would burn in nuclear fire.

Because that's how it works. Cause and effect and nothing else. There's no place for mercy.

**Desdemona Crow, District Eight, 13**

I stay in the control bay because I really, _really _want to know what's going on, even though being there means I have to… well… see everything that's going on.

Kaya, Luka, and I all seem to operate on the same strategy when Ariel makes an appearance: duck and cover until we know what kind of mood he's in. I've mentally designated two cases: Ariel and Scariel. Ariel is calm and professional. Scariel is, in fact, scary. Manic, aggressive, occasionally for-real violent, although Amelia always sorts it out. He makes strange little comments that everyone but me flinches at, making me feel like I'm missing something every time.

Ariel-or-Scariel stomps in. He seems to have found clothes other than the suit: a pair of sweatpants and a faded green T-shirt three sizes too big, hanging from his shoulders and making him look skinnier than before. It's strange. I thought he was vain; why is he dressing like the last thing he wants is for someone to get a good look at him? What changed? He's almost acting like…

Oh.

_Oh. _A whole lot of things suddenly make sense. And I just really, really want to go home.

His eyes go right to Luka, who's giving him just the slightest bit of a sideways look. "Still think I'm awful, huh?" he says with a humorless laugh.

Luka frowns. "I don't think you're awful."

"Yes, you do," Ariel grumbles, booting up a control panel I haven't seen anyone use yet. Did Tibbi give him passwords?

"I really, really don't. I hate what you're _doing–"_

"Then go ahead and get me for it."

"You're committing mass murder," Luka says quietly.

"Quite aware. Thank you."

"You think that's a decision you should be making right now?"

"My goodness, Luka darling, it's like you think I'm unstable or something," Ariel purrs, fixing Luka with his best crazy eyes. "You're right; other people making decisions for me is _exactly _what my sanity needs right now."

Luka looks like he'd rather be doing absolutely anything other than fighting with Ariel, but he soldiers on. "I'm not trying to manipulate you. I'm just saying what I think. If anyone's manipulating you, it's her," he says, jerking his head in Tibbi's direction.

Over at the main console, Tibbi's shoulders tense, but she doesn't turn around.

Ariel's eyes narrow. "I seem to recall wanting to destroy the Capitol long before Tibbi asked me to help do it. Believe it or not, I made that decision more on the basis of all the rape and torture than the fact that she asked nicely."

Luka swallows hard. "Do the innocent people mean _anything _to you, though? Look, I'll be the first to take everyone you point at and chuck them in prison forever—hell, I wouldn't stop you from killing them—but you've gotta admit this is too much if it's just about revenge."

"There's no middle option."

"Maybe there would be if people would stop and at least fucking _try _to think of one for five fucking minutes."

"… I'm sure people did," Ariel says, but there's definite uncertainty in his voice.

"I've been in here this whole time. They didn't. C'mon, Ariel, I'll be right behind you when you go after the people who deserve it, but this is a _city, _there are _kids–"_

"Luka, get out."

Tibbi still hasn't turned around, but her voice, usually sort of giggly and squeaky, cuts through his like a scalpel.

Luka freezes. "What?"

"Out of the control bay. Don't come back."

"But–"

_"__Now."_

Luka flinches, and Kaya does too, like they've heard that tone before. Luka gets up and slinks out without another word. If he had a tail, it would be between his legs.

The silence stretches on. Ariel stares at Tibbi, and there's a definite note of suspicion and hostility in his face that wasn't there before. She notices it and takes a deep breath.

"Okay, so I could've handled that better," she says calmly.

Ariel's voice returns to a monotone. "Why not let him talk?"

"Because I don't have time to explain to him why he's wrong. I _did _consider every other possible option. I ruled them all out for reasons he wouldn't understand."

"Might've helped to at least tell him _that _much."

"When I say there's no time, I mean there is _no _time," Tibbi says, pointing at a screen. "Or they're going to get us first. Possibly alive."

Ariel glances at it. I don't know what he sees, but his face goes pale. "Oh."

**Luka Skade, District Three, 16**

I'm not giving up. I'm just… regrouping.

Or at least that's the plan. But then a woman in a lab coat runs past me. And another. And a few mechanics. All of them urgent and wide-eyed, yelling stuff at each other that I mostly don't get, but I hear words like _live _and _fire _and _launch _and _bomb._

Hell no. Absolutely not. I turn and sprint back up the hall to the control bay.

**Kieri Fonte, District Ten stylist**

"You're a fantastic baker."

Joel Skade ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. "Thank you. Never had this much to work with before."

"Yes, it's… er… um." What am I supposed to say to that? Apologize on behalf of the whole Capitol? _Oops, we accidentally stole everything. Sorry I'm fifteen pounds overweight while your son is fifteen pounds underweight. My bad._

"Things'll get better," Joel shrugs with a smile identical to Luka's. They're both the personification of sunshine itself, I swear. Where _is _Luka, though? He keeps dragging me into the kitchen to make cookies with them, but I've barely seen him in days.

It's all just very strange to think about. I was always told such awful things about the District people, how mean and stupid and vicious they are. Joel is none of those things. He _looks _scary, certainly, but he's gentle as could be and bakes the best snickerdoodles I've ever had. His obvious love for Luka makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. He pulls Amelia aside in the hallway to slip her extra cookies, suggesting that she try to get Ariel to eat them. He's quite a good Ariel-whisperer, actually; I've seen him get real smiles from the boy. If there's one thing Ariel has a radar for, it's genuine kindness and concern. Joel is the only person other than Amelia I've seen him willingly make physical contact with.

So I was lied to. But I can't help wondering, what were the District people told about _us? _About me? I'm just happy it's Tibbi with her finger on the button. She's just bluffing. She wouldn't _actually _bomb her own city, not while my family is there, distant though we are. It'll be fine.

A distant yell echoes through the doors to the kitchen. It's not until Joel drops the batter and charges out the door, splattering me with cake mix, that I realize it's Luka screaming.

**Amelia Bailey, District One, 18**

"All clear. Go?"

"Go."

There's someone at every console, Ariel among them. Kaya, Des, and I are pressed into the center of the room, looking around in confusion.

"Did they just…?" Kaya hisses to me.

I feel sick. "I think they might've."

The huge screen in the front of the room switches to a camera feed, showing the inside of the launch bay. So they haven't dropped it yet. Not quite.

Something small, pale, and red-haired tears past me. Oh, no

Luka pushes Tibbi away from her console—even now, careful not to hurt her—and slips between her and the controls.

"Tibbi, _please–"_

She's no bigger than him, but somehow she knocks him to the floor, still barely looking at him. One of her minions pounces before he can get up and drags him in the direction of the door.

"Now," she spits.

The screen goes black and I realize it's the night sky.

And that's it. From what I've heard, there's no going back now. My stomach sinks. It's like being at the top of a roller coaster times infinity; everything is calm for now, but very soon…

Everyone stumbles as the hovercraft retreats at the speed of sound while the bomb charges forward. A cluster of lights appears on the screen. The Capitol.

Luka's whispered _oh, god _echoes through the otherwise-silent control bay.

One second the Capitol is a scatter of distant lights; a second later, I can make out buildings.

Ariel's face, blank until now, shows a glimmer of worry. "Wait," he says quietly.

"Why isn't it detonating?" Tibbi's voice says, sharp and cold.

Ariel gulps. "Something's wrong with the altimeter."

"Goddammit," Tibbi hisses.

Ariel flinches at the viciousness in her voice. "I'm sorry."

I want to scream at her. _You drugged a traumatized teenager with amphetamines and asked him to work on a nuclear bomb for forty-eight hours straight; what the hell were you expecting? And don't you dare yell at him._

Tibbi watches as the bomb's viewpoint streaks closer and closer to the buildings. "Well, is it going to–?"

"I don't know. There's another failsafe. It'll decelerate; I… I-I think when it hits the ground… there's a timer…"

Luka, in the grip of two engineers near the door, makes a sound disturbingly similar to the split second video I saw of Ariel dying before I turned and ran from the room. Incoherent, obliterating pain, and not a sharp shock; the kind that builds and builds and then lingers.

I see cars. People. Running and panicking. A couple holding hands. Three teenage boys in some kind of sports uniform. People who have never so much as laid eyes on Ariel in person, have no idea he's even alive. People who are probably ambivalent to the Hunger Games, because after all, what can they do about it? People who rioted over what happened to him, allowing Tibbi's plan to work. I see the detritus of those riots. Signs, posters, graffiti. I see Ariel's name.

"No," he says quietly.

Oh, no.

"No. Wait, no, nonono, _no_–"

I put a hand on his shoulder and he throws an elbow at my stomach. I let it hit me, standing there helplessly as he punches buttons, but he's helpless, too. It's too late. Something about the huge T-shirt makes the sight of him slowly cracking that much worse. He gives up and slumps against his console, bowing his head, his arms shaking like he's about to collapse entirely.

Tibbi looks thoughtful.

The screen glitches as the bomb hits the ground. Dirt flies and falls to reveal what looks like a park. Right in the middle is a bright red Radio Flyer wagon, on its side, a half-eaten pudding cup knocked over in it. A chubby little black-haired girl, her face tear-streaked, runs in front of the camera.

All hell breaks loose. Luka starts screaming like he's being stabbed, his voice cracking within seconds. It's all hurt, no anger; I guess that's just how he is. Des gasps, her confusion melting into horror as she realizes what's happening. Kaya's face is utterly blank. Ariel sinks to the floor, his hand over his mouth, his eyes empty.

But he said it would detonate when it hit the ground. It hasn't. Maybe…?

Ariel must see the question on my face, because he shakes his head blankly, staring straight ahead. "Ten seconds," he breathes. "I'm sorry."

**Vesta Fonte, Capitol citizen**

_"… __In your homes, probably," _the little portable radio says. _"I, uh, I apologize for the informality; this isn't normally my job, but I'm the only one here. But I promise you'll know everything I know."_

I can barely hear the woman on the radio over the sound of Sabina hyperventilating next to me, but I don't bother telling her to be quiet. It doesn't matter whether I can hear or not. We're already in limbo; all we can do is wait.

There was a flurry of survival nonsense being broadcast a while ago. Stay away from windows. Stay indoors. I took the advice for just in case, but I'm very, very skeptical that it's effective for anything other than calming us down a bit. My building is made of steel, wood, and plaster. I heard rumors of a bomb big enough to turn the city into a desert of glass. If it's real and it detonates, I'm going to die. If not, I live. That's all. There's no action I could take, nothing at all, that can change what's going to happen.

_"__I'm broadcasting from outside the Capitol, probably out of range of a nuclear strike, so if anything happens, I'll still be here."_

Glad you're safe, I want to snap at the woman on the radio. She speaks in the tone of a soldier cut off from her superiors, competent, but uncertain. I _am _glad she's safe, in a way. If anything happens, the survivors will still have her voice in the air. That'll be something, in the middle of… whatever's going to happen. _Might _happen.

_"__Significant amounts of radiation will block radio waves, though, and a gamma burst would travel faster than an explosion. If, um, if there's a nuclear blast, whatever device you're listening on will lose my signal at least for a moment."_

At least.

Claudius shifts in his sleep between Sabina and I. I hope he doesn't wake up.

I hope he doesn't wake up _soon, _I mean. He'll wake up tomorrow morning, having been returned to his bed by Sabina. He'll go to school where rumors will fly among the first graders, those who were awake commanding the attention of the others as they share their spectacularly embellished stories of what happened tonight. His life isn't over.

And if it is, it will end in a split second. If the bomb goes off, it will happen close to us, so we'll be dead before our brains register the flash. We won't burn. Like that girl.

_"__I have a radar signal of a rogue hovercraft in the vicinity."_

Should I be crying? I don't feel remotely inclined to. I can't even blink. The air around me feels sluggish and heavy and so does my brain. I've never felt so detached.

_"__There does seem to be… um…"_

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, leaning back against the wall, pulling my pajama-clad knees up to my chest and reflecting vaguely that I'm too old to be down here on the floor. Something makes me kick off my bunny slippers. It's that feeling of being a… civilian? A number, helpless and interchangeable; one of the people who scream and die in the background of the movie. There's a world of difference, I think, between dying with dignity and being a mangled body in bunny slippers. I don't want to be the victim-prop, my body lying around for people stronger than me to get upset about and then move on. I don't want to be what the Districts must think I am, a squawking, screaming, stupid old biddy of a human being, dying hysterical and pathetic. I can be killed, like this, unceremonious, one among so very many, but even then I can die on my own terms.

Sabina's sobs are starting to bother me. I want to tell her to be brave, even though no one will know.

She gasps and I return my attention to the radio.

Static.


End file.
